"I swear, you don't look a day over 40"
"I'm 27, bitch."
"I know."
Benjamin Kissell
Nothing can quite make a gay heart weep tarantula-mascara track tears down the face quite like that lovely conversation where – after choking on your coffee [or chocolate-laced late lunch martini] – you admit to your impending birthday and actual age.
[True, nothing is quite as terror/fight-or-flight inducing as admitting your real weight in public – not the one you tell dates in hopes they’ll buy it, but the one your doctor reads off as you have a small heart attack standing half-nude on that scale in her office. Wait, is that just me?]
Can you picture it? My best friend Nate and I sitting at a quiet bistro table [okay, a cramped booth at O’Charley’s] discussing the impending doom of 2012. Not the whole Mayan End-of-All-Things bullshit,
No. The unavoidable.
The non-negotiable.
The hunt-you-down-ness.
This summer I turn 29. That’s practically 30. And, as well all know, 30 – in gay terms – is washed-up. Dead. Finito.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I personally don’t hold [much] to this way of thinking. But, the finality of that number still scares the shit out of me.
30.
My 20s are on a hit-list and the big 3-0 is gunning them down.
In theory I really don’t have trouble with aging – as my Mum says, ‘It beats the Hell out of the alternative’, and she’s right. For other people. In theory.
Of course, I slug back the rest of this delicious chocolate martini to calm my nerves.
This sprang up and smacked me fully in the face when, offhandedly, I mentioned that my family’s vacation ends 2 days before my birthday this summer. 2 days before my 29th birthday. I may have stuttered, spluttered and felt the need to fetch the smelling salts.
When I regained my breath and double-check there are no giant teary-mascara tracks, I resume my chat with Nate.
I guess you could call this a “lush lunch”.
"we're not laughing at you ... well, we are, but, get over it"
How did I get to feeling better?
This may sound a tad petty and … well … you wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Nate pointed out how I had hit my prime in my early 20s and was holding nicely. [Whereas he is still en route to his prime, the lucky sod.] I look better – to me – at 28, pushing 29 than I did at 21.
Well, except I had a washboard stomach at 21.Okay, so, I look better clothed at almost-29 than I did at 21. I can live with this.
To top it off, and to make ourselves feel a little more secure in our own aging, we compared how a few of our exes were faring in the same boat. [Catty and more than a little petty, I know.]
..................
Denny hit his prime at 18 and by 22 was already thin-haired and yo-yo dieting.
Mitch was balding by 23 and, at 29, no longer sported the trim frame from his Navy days; a heavy diet of ‘the munchies’ and beer didn’t help.
Stewie? Well, he’s still a skinny-scrawny twink, but, the heavy smoking and occasional drug-use have left a Lindsay Lohan patina on him by 24. So not sexy.
And Robert, who had been the most charismatic skater/twink/sexy-gogo guy either of us had known – he oozed charisma and sexuality from his very pores as long as either of us had known him – well? Now, at almost-31 he had lost the battle of the bulge; his always-fine blond hair was becoming a thing of the past and, despite still having personality-charisma, he was far from the sex-god desirable he was even two years past.
..................
Small wonder admitting my 29th birthday this summer scared the fuck out of me.
Nate snapped me out of my reverie, “Ben, I wouldn’t be surprised if ten years down the road you were looking at collagen and botox.”
How did he know? I mean, I’m a little vain – I shall pause to let you recover your breath from that laugh-attack, thank you – but, am I that vain?
Who does he think I am? Heidi Montag [inserted pseudo-timely celebrity riff]?
Admittedly, while Christmas shopping with friend in Victoria’s Secret I ogled the plumping lip-gloss [which was summarily pushed out of my hand]. So, maybe I am kinda that insecure about this whole aging thing. But, I promise – with all that’s in my little black heart – I shan’t resort to botox. I pinky promise.
not an actual photo of me, but, pretty close to my scorn-y laugh
For one thing, I like making scornful eyebrow quirks too much [and have had crow’s feet and mild forehead wrinkles since my teens] to botox them away.
And suddenly the voices of Bea Arthur and Angela Lansbury pop into my head singing that wonderful song from Mame, Bosom Buddies.
Vera:
Tho’ now and again I’m aware that my candid opinion may sting,
Mame:
Tho’ often my frank observation may scald; I’ve been meanin’ to tell you for years, you should keep your hair natural like mine.
Vera:
If I kept my hair natural like yours, I’d be bald
…
Mame:
I feel it’s my duty to tell you it’s time to adjust to your age: You try to be “Peg O’My Heart”, when you’re “Lady Macbeth”. Exactly how old are you, Vera? The truth!
Vera:
Well, how old do you think?
Mame:
I’d say somewhere in between forty – and death!
Shake it off, Benjamin.
No. Diet and exercise. And hair dye. And the occasional trip to the waxer. And flattering clothes. These shall be my allies in the war on aging.
Now, who’s buying me an early birthday present?
