Face Value

I’m at the age where many of my friends are retired and their kids have grown and left home. Their lives are quieter now. More time. More space to notice things.

And lately, what many of them seem to notice most are their faces and bodies.

They’re getting facelifts. They’ve been doing Botox for years. Some are microneedling—a process where tiny needles puncture the skin—as if it’s as ordinary as a manicure. They fill their lips, erase lines, lighten sunspots, lift their boobs and butts, burn their fat, freeze their fat.

It’s not like any of them are models or celebrities, where the pressure to stay young is cutthroat. These are everyday women—smart, capable women who spent decades working in tech, in education, in healthcare. Women who raised kids, built careers, held shit together when their marriages were failing, when their children were struggling, or their parents were dying.

When they ask my opinion, I tell them the truth: you don’t need to do anything.

But they go ahead anyway.

And of course, that gets in my head.

I start scrutinizing myself. I worry about the lines in my forehead—lines made from worrying. My eyelid hoods are lower than they used to be. My laugh lines make me wonder if I should smile less, laugh less, as if joy itself is the culprit behind aging.

The crow’s feet around my eyes? I joke that maybe I should just keep my eyes wide open at all times. I am positive that it would lead to wrinkles elsewhere.

I have a few dark sunspots—souvenirs from years spent outside making memories and forgetting sunscreen. My lips, especially my upper lip, are thin. I avoid lipstick because it feels like drawing attention to something that isn’t really there. I stick to tinted balm instead—soft, subtle, safe.

And then there’s my body.

I think about that silly song we used to sing as kids: Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro…

Yes! Yes, they do!

My ass has flattened, nearly disappeared, like it snuck out the back door. There’s the hanging fupa that became much more noticeable after my second C-section. Coarse chin hairs appear more frequently—the ones that aren’t there when you leave the house but are suddenly an inch long when you catch your reflection in the rearview mirror.

My pubic hair is turning gray, and there’s a bald spot on my mons pubis the size of a quarter. I know this because, yes, I measured it. With actual coins.

And yet, despite all of these imperfections, this is the best I have ever felt about myself physically.

Because growing up, I was a fat girl.

Not the quirky, funny “fat best friend” you see in movies or sitcoms—who is almost always played by an attractive, normal-sized actress in slightly looser clothing.

I was actually fat. And angry. And weird. And lonely.

I was called “fatty” and “chubbs”—a nickname my brother still uses sometimes. And, thanks to Judy Blume and a fourth-grade classroom reading, I was also “Blubber.”

I struggled to find clothes that fit. My thighs chafed so badly they would blister and bleed from the constant rubbing when I walked, which meant I avoided movement. And when I did have to move, I struggled to breathe—huffing and puffing. My cholesterol was high. My blood pressure was high. I was miserable.

I haven’t been overweight in a long time, but that identity hasn’t disappeared entirely. It lingers. I eat relatively well and exercise regularly, but every now and then I’ll scarf down a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with cheese, extra pickles, and an M&M McFlurry because I like them. When the number on the scale starts to creep up, I feel a flicker of panic—but I try not to let it take over.

Instead, I’ve started focusing on what my body can do.

My legs—thanks to two hip replacements—still let me stand, jump, dance like a fifteen-year-old boy, and wander aimlessly on what I call hikes. My arthritic hands still let me paint like a kindergartner, write poems, wave to a friend, flip the bird to an idiot driver (I'm a true California, no stopping at stop signs!), and hold the hand of someone I love.

My nearsighted eyes still let me read, which is one of my favorite ways to pass time. They let me watch horror movies and cover my eyes when it gets too gory. They let me ugly cry when my heart gets ripped out by someone whose hand I was holding.

Most importantly, they let me see my friends clearly.

Women who have finally arrived at a stage of life where they have time—time that used to belong to jobs and children and obligations. They are free to do whatever they want.

So I wonder why they don’t allow their faces and bodies to be part of that freedom. Why they see them as new projects to manage, new areas needing renovations.

Because when I look at them, I don’t see flaws that need fixing. I see lines and scars that have been earned. I see lives that have been lived. I see stories that deserve to be shared—stories I want to hear.

Sure, I wonder what they see when they look at me. Maybe they think I should change something. But I like what I see. I like being able to recognize myself in the mirror. These wrinkles, this body—they’re mine.

This is me, at face value.

Oh and yeah…I’m also the poor friend…I don’t have the money for any of the work!!