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During a very long hike one summer day in the Adirondack mountains, my daughter and I developed a secret codeword acronym, SHMIF, which stands for "Shoot me if..." The command can end in varying forms: "Shoot me if... my body weight ever exceeds that of the maximum load for a freight elevator," or "Shoot me if... I ever walk down the street with my skirt tucked into the back of my underwear."
We activate the code when we spot people who shouldn't be wearing leggings in public (leggings are a privilege, not a right, after all). We also take note of those who've undergone extensive and obvious facial cosmetic "procedures." Walking down the street, one of us might sound the alarm. "SHMIF!" my daughter alerts me: "Rhinoplasty on your right."
"Noted," I murmur without moving my lips, catching a shiny new proboscis in my peripheral vision.
But one day while we were trapped in a long checkout line at Target we spotted a woman so disfigured by surgical "enhancement" that she sucked all the fun out of our mean-spirited game. Judging by her posture and her shoes she couldn't have been much older than me, but it was impossible and almost irrelevant to gauge. Her face was held up tightly at either side by what I assume could only be carpet tacks and/or Gorilla Glue. Her cheekbones, plumped like Butterball turkey breasts, were so high and puffy they were in danger of obscuring her vision and her lips reminded me of the grotesquely oversized wax ones found around Halloween. She was frightening.
"Please, oh please..." I begged my daughter after we burst out of the automatic exit doors. But she didn't let me finish.
"I will shoot you, Mom. I promise."
"Thank you," I said. We both nodded soberly.
I have no interest in being politically correct but my aim isn't to offend anyone who's undergone "anti-aging" procedures. I just don't ever want to do it. Moreover, I don't want to want to do it.
The topic of aging seems to come up a lot when you're actively engaged in doing so. In fact, I've found the formative stages of getting older can really catch you off-guard. Where I used to work, for example, there was a small, dark office that had been altered to feature a couple of comfortable chairs and a cot. It was called the New Mothers room (lettered in pink) and it was designated for pregnant or nursing women. Some "new mothers" napped and some pumped milk. Some took a break from the rigors of combining office and nature's work.
Having teen-agers when I was employed there, I never had an opportunity to take advantage of the respite the room offered. But every time I walked past the always-closed door it made me wonder about the line separating "new" from "old" mothers. It implied, to me at least, that "old" mothers weren't that important, certainly not worthy of a room of their own.
Now that I'm in my very late 40s (which means you can't get much closer to 50), I've taken a new tack in my steady sail toward the horizon: when someone asks me how old I am -- and, mercifully, I find the older I get the more people are averse to asking -- I age up. It's easier that way. Everyone knows when you lie about your age (and I'm not referring cutting off a mere 368-or so days from your actual birth date). Plastic surgery does nothing to dispel that truth, no matter how tightly your jaw is wrapped around your ears.
Some landmarks in life present themselves like forks on a mountain trail, and sometimes it's prudent to stand there for a few moments, catch your breath and contemplate your choices. Both trails lead to the same summit but there's one path that's well marked and nicely groomed. It's the SHMIF trail. Alluring as it may seem, it can be treacherous and requires an enormous amount of physical maintenance. Additionally, it's rigged against you because once you start, you can never seem to complete it; there's always one more "necessary" procedure lurking in the future.
The other trail involves its own amount of work. It's not always scenic. It's rocky, uneven and terribly marked -- in fact some might say it's downhill all the way. Which trail better suits you? Do you pad along the easier one that offers facelift rest stops and Restalyn rope tows, or do you take the steep, messy and sometimes scary one?
For me, the choice is clear. I'm not taking the trail marked "SHMIF." I don't ever plan to have plastic surgery but mostly, I don't want to walk down the street with my skirt tucked into the back of my underwear.
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