Perimenopause In The City #5
What am I willing to do to preserve my youth?
I’m into facials, and I blame Martha Stewart.
In my 30s, Martha told me that getting a monthly facial was the best thing I could do for my skin and health. ‘You really must do it,’ she said—there’s no excuse not to. She presented it as if it were a necessity.
So, at 40, I began getting regular facials, and I learned Martha was right (I mean, when isn’t she?). My face had a new glow, and I could tell it made a difference. Since then, my beauty regime has included regular facials, eyebrow treatments, and hair coloring.
Since moving to New York, I’ve had trouble finding a new home for my monthly facials. I’m basically a facial nomad. (Which is ironic, as it just occurred to me that I live in Nomad.)
I made an appointment for a facial at the Ritz Carlton down the street. Swanky, I know.
The esthetician there had amazing skin and looked 30, but she tells me she’s 52.
I’ll tell you my secrets.
Yes, please. I think.
I’d had a protein shake before arriving, and my stomach made that weird gurgle that it can make when things might go bad quickly.
Oh God, I hope I don’t have diarrhea in the middle of this thing.
Because these are the things I worry about now.
The spa experience in my 50s is different than it used to be.
But I digress…
30/52 doesn’t seem to notice any of this and continues to share her secrets. She has an LED mask and this electro current thing she uses every month—it helps strengthen the muscles of the face.
The mask costs about $500 (you can buy it to use at home), and the microcurrent thing adds a few hundred to each session.
It seems like a lot, yet I am intrigued.
I mean, if I could look 30…
Then she tells me that even with all of this, she’ll get a facelift at 55 because why would she do all of the Botox and the fillers and all of that when she could get the surgery and have it all taken care of in one swoop?
I can see her point.
I never thought I’d be one to care all that much about holding onto my youth.
I’ve always had this thing going in the back of my mind that there was something shameful about it. It was vain, superficial, unnecessary.
I’d look down on women who had excessive plastic surgery or spent too much time at the local med spa.
Undoubtedly, the evidence of what was lacking inside was clearly visible as she desperately clung to her appearance on the outside.
As I approach my mid-50s, that might be changing.
It’s weird because as I age, I’m becoming more fully myself and someone I don’t quite recognize when I look in the mirror.
I wonder if I’m losing a part of me.
In my 20s, I took my youth for granted.
Those were my clueless years. Or perhaps I should call them my optimistic years.
In my 30s, establishing myself as a woman, mother, and wife, I was more interested in keeping it all together—proving to myself and the world that I could be a good person—the right kind of person—dare I say, the perfect person. I compared myself to others to prove my worthiness.
I was blonde then. As I approached my 40s and began my emotional healing journey, I transitioned back to my natural color as part of my get-real strategy.
Someone I knew then told me she would do everything she could to hold on to her youthful appearance.
‘Wow,’ I thought. ‘Here you are telling us all about it, and you don’t even have any shame about how vain you are- where your priorities are.’ Still, I found her candidness refreshing. A part of me was like, ‘Good for her.’ But I admit, it was a small part.
My 30s were my judgy years.
I’d never not had the beauty that comes with youth. I didn’t understand yet what I would be missing.
This perfectly dovetailed into my forties, when my life fell apart, and I realized that I didn’t really know who I was or what I wanted.
I emerged from the proverbial ashes of my torched life - a phoenix on the rise.
I was more sure of myself and (hopefully) less judgy.
My youth had not waned all that much. I was working out consistently and for the first time in a long time (ever?), I had looks paired with a confidence I’d never experienced. I was independent financially and emotionally, and it felt great. Actually, better than great. It felt fantastic.
Stepping into yourself should feel fantastic.
Those were my freedom years.
Now, the 50-ish version of myself is trying to figure out who she wants to be - especially when it comes to looks and beauty.
When I moved to New York, I started Botox and have seen numerous doctors and aestheticians about fillers, lifts, sculpts, and all kinds of things I never thought I’d consider. Ever.
I’m asking the questions:
Do I want to try to hang on to my outward beauty?
If so, how much?
How much time do I want to invest in it?
How much money?
I wonder what lengths I will go to preserve my youthful looks.
And the more critical question - Am I doing this for me? Or is it a desperate grasp to hang onto my youth and, therefore, my value?
I can’t help but wonder - am I being played here? Of course, I know I am being played.
But, also, maybe not, in a way?
No one wants to feel unuseful, unimportant, or unnecessary.
Is our desire for youth simply a basic attempt to avoid being cast out of the herd when we know we have so much more to give? A survival tactic? A need to mitigate or postpone some sort of loss?
No one likes to feel like they are losing something, especially a part of themselves.
It’s tricky. And I thought about all of this while getting that facial.
When we finished, 30/52 led me to the wellness room, where I was offered tea and snacks.
Would you like honey in your tea?
I don’t like sweet drinks—or even tea—but it seemed like a very self-care-ish thing to do.
“Sure - and yes, honey would be lovely,” I told her.
I tried the honey; it was delicious.
Maybe this new evolution of Sara might like some sweetness in her drinks.
And maybe a little Botox, too (or even something more).
You never know.
What is your perspective when it comes to preserving your looks?
Is it vanity? Survival? Personal preference?
I’d love to know what you think in the comments below.
LYLAS -
S