You're Aging??? What Staggering Luck!

Accidental Reader!

Because your mom boffed your dad at one second past midnight instead of two seconds past midnight…..

Because you’re in the universe by a frickin’ fluke….

Because you understand that it’s sheer luck to be alive on this planet, at this time, in this place, reading this particular Substack….

Can you please tell me why our correspondent ignores the cosmic odds of even having a jawline to complain about its sagging?

Dear E. Jean,

I write to you as a woman without an age.

Telling you the number of decades I’ve lived on earth will only distort the question I want to ask you. So, here goes:

There was a time when my looks were my herald; they opened doors and whispered promises of a perpetual spring. Yet, as the seasons turn, so does my reflection.

And like many of us, I face a relentless judge.

In my profession, the currency of youth and beauty is prized. The industry's mirror reflects not the depth of my expertise, but the surface of my skin, counting each line as a mark against my relevance.

This erosion of my physical self is not just a fading of color or the sagging of my jaw line—it is an existential challenge.

My first question: How did you face it?

As for me, I’m not only witnessing the retreat of my youth, I feel I’m being forced to renegotiate my very identity.

I think you know the struggle I’m talking about. It's a battle for recognition. It’s a fight to remain visible in a world that equates the loss of one's looks with the diminishing of one's worth. And worst of all, there is a profound grief in this battle. I feel a daily sorrow as I mourn the loss of a familiar friend—myself.

Since I no longer recognize myself in the mirror, (who is that tired old woman?) my arsenal of cosmetics now covers the bathroom counter, two enormous drawers, and a bag of “essentials.” Every morning I attempt to recapture the face that was once mine. The result?  

I am now thinking of plastic surgery.

Avoiding the surgeon's knife has always felt like a moral victory. Yet, the victory is pyrrhic, as the battleground shifts to my career, where looking good isn't just vanity—it's a requisite for survival.

I’ve read your column over the years--and recently enjoyed the Conflab—and it feels like we are in this together. So I’m going to ask my second question: