Humor about aging with a special emphasis on dryness - from Hagerstown Magazine July/Aug 2006 (HagerstownMagazine.com)

I’ve recently begun to notice a certain quality to my skin, never having thought it would happen to me--the crepe paper syndrome. You know the look. Skin in areas, such as the forearm, that one doesn’t ordinarily think of as capable of wrinkling, is wrinkling! Generally, the light has to be just so; but that doesn’t mean no one spots it. It probably happens most often when you’re making a presentation to your volunteer organization or lecturing a friend on how to initiate healthy eating habits.

Quickly on the heels of that discovery, came the morning when what I ordinarily thought of as a momentary lapse that occurs upon awakening had instead lasted the entire morning. Morning Face! Puffy bags under–no, more like, around the eyes, pale blue streaks creeping from the inner corner down into the cheeks, nicely dividing in half what used to be high cheekbones. Now they sag gently above the newly developing pouches, one along each side of the jawline.

The freckles I used to champion as summer fashion, that on my pale skin passed for a tan, are now there year round, cooperatively increasing their presence by forming alliances with age spots. I tried dying my hair and while some friends claimed to love it and swore it made me look a decade younger, I missed the streaks of white, the uneven shiny tones I’d painfully earned by not knowing how to solve life’s most ordinary problems.

Now, when I exercise regularly, I also regularly injure myself which requires generous amounts of recuperative time. The knee that used to swell once every three to five years has instituted an annual schedule. Tennis elbows can be activated with just a little gardening, a stiff neck and debilitating scapular pain from working a Sudoku puzzle while lying in bed.

Oh, and let’s not forget the topic of moisturization. There’s an armamentarium required to combat aridity – hand cream needed after every washing, the lavender (calming) moisturizing spritz for my face, soothing lip balm, pumice stone and pentrating oil required to soften and protect my heels, knees, and elbows – the sander, grinder and grating tools; 5% opthalmalic ointment to keep my lids from tearing away corneal cells. (And I might add that this little item costs $20 for a tube a quarter the size of a tube of lipstick and whose principal ingredient is finely ground salt.)

I can’t say the skin cream actually makes my skin more moist. I suspect it’s more that it acts like a glue that prevents the cells from incessantly falling and creating dust bunnies large enought to trip on. Then there’s the humidifying and comforting spray for my nasal passages to prevent indecorous nosebleeds in public, the aloe vera spray to moisturize a dry itchy back, balancing conditioner for my hair, non drying styling lotion to force curls into looking as if they had intention; carrot oil, almond, peanut butter, sunflower, coconut, peppermint, rosemary leaf, and castor oils along with vitamin E, for trying to lubricate the human desert I’ve become – all to no visible effect.

I’m beginning to appreciate the saying, “Growing old isn’t for sissies.” So far, as long as the light is soft and indirect, a few people still murmur with surprise, when they find out I’m 63, “You don’t look that old.”

Here’s my secret, I tell them: the gift of immaturity. Playful laughter–the most effective youth-inducing balm of all. If not on the outside, then at least on the inside.