Facing Facts

My lovely Nana

The other night at dinner, Aiden suggested we play a game he just learned, “Two Truths and a Lie.” We didn’t have the heart to tell him that game had been kicking around forever, so we joined in with gusto. When it was my turn I listed, “I have freckles” as my lie. Because I don’t—at least, not anymore. 

At one time they were a defining feature of my wild Irish face, sprinkled all over my cheeks like confetti. Back then, the standard of beauty was the alabaster-skinned model Jean Shrimpton, so I tried everything I could to rid myself of the hideous spots, including a potion of lemon juice and horseradish my friend Lisa and I cooked up in 8^th grade, from an old Home Remedy book. That was when I learned that my freckles went deep—at least deeper than the layers of skin burned off by that “magic” elixir. 

Eventually my freckles and I declared a truce, because other notable stuff was starting to happen on the facial front. Wrinkles first made an appearance in my early forties, right around the time my hair began going gray. It was easy to deal with the latter by getting the hair colored on a regular basis. The wrinkles were not as easily conquered. For a few years I fought the good fight, slathering myself with ridiculously expensive retinol creams. To my horror, these intensive treatments seemed to only deepen the creases (or maybe I was just examining my face way too often in a magnifying mirror) So I put away my credit card.

But now, here we are, still wearing face masks as we approach Pandemic Week 1,000,000 (or so it seems). And I realized just the other day that no one, apart from family members and a few close friends, has seen my uncovered visage in ages. Which means—I could very well have youthful, vibrant and totally wrinkle-free skin under that KN-95! So I’ve begun to think of myself that way. Beyond Cetaphil wash and some cold cream, I don’t use anything on my face anymore. And it occurred to me: maybe, if I totally ignore the signs of aging, my lines, like my freckles, will eventually fade away! Perhaps it truly is mind over matter, and I can lose those pesky "laugh lines" and those break-through gray hairs by just refusing to think about them! 

And if that doesn’t work, I might do well to recall the beautiful skin of my Nana Cunningham. To me, she had a flawless complexion right up to the end. Love smoothed out those lines in my mind and maybe, just maybe, it will do the same for me, in the minds of those who care about me. 

So here are my two truths:

I am starting to look old.

It really doesn’t matter.

And my lie:

My value in this world is cosmetic.

In this time of the Great Coverup, I may just have uncovered the secret to contentment.

Making my peace with this face