2010-02-20 / Editorials & Letters

Lighten up: Father Time is one mean S.O.B. - Take 2

Editor’s Note: Last week’s column was cut short by eight paragraphs. It was the editor’s error.

By Dawn Weber

Somebody’s beating me up in the middle of the night.

And I think it’s Father Time.

Eyes all baggy, forehead all furrowed, cheek all sleep-wrinkled - I wake each morning to a face that looks like it’s gone 19 rounds with George Foreman. And his grill.

Beauty sleep? My booty!

Coffee in hand, I head to the mirror to assess injuries.

AHHHHH! My daughter’s gone and flipped the makeup mirror around to the “magnified” side again! This is not nice to do to a young lady of, um, 25, like myself...

Eyelashes pasted to puffy, crinkly eyes. Wrinkles have sprouted in new and unique areas, seemingly overnight. Dark circles that would do the grim reaper proud. And - wouldn’t you know it - a nice zit thrown in. Just for grins n’ giggles.

Ah, middle age. Wrinkles AND acne. A double delight!

You know, that Father Time is one mean S.O.B. - Stealer o’ Beauty - and I hope Mother Nature and the Tooth Fairy gang up and kick his arse someday. (Just sayin’...)

Damages assessed, I reach for my weapons against Mr. Time. In fact, I’ve an entire heaping Longaberger basket filled with lotions, serums, gels, and potions - just to keep him away.

There’s your standard lotions, SPF lotions, day lotions and night lotions, your alpha hydroxies, your retinols, your self tanners and your soothing gels. Your pore reducers, your exfoliators, your tone enhancers and your anti-oxidants...

And don’t get me started on the eye creams. They have their own basket.

I was discussing the Father Time fight with my good friend Marj the other day, telling her how it’s taking more and more of these “chemical weapons” to fight him off. She had this to say:

“It’ll only get worse.”

I don’t know why I expected her to say anything else. This is her standard answer for everything. Marj, a few (EIGHT!) years older than me, is the Eeyore of Aging:

Me: “Now, what was it I was going to tell you? I can’t remember what I was going to say...”

Marj: “It’ll only get worse.”

Me: (Different day) “Can you turn the music up? I can’t quite hear it...”

Marj: “It’ll only get worse.”

Sometimes, she doesn’t even listen before spreading her Message of Doom.

Me: “Hey Marj - do you want some potato chips?”

Marge: “It’ll only get worse.”

Whatever would I do without Wise Marj?

Seeking more Marj-ness, recently I told her that Father Time isn’t just pummeling my face each night. Judging by painful, tender muscles in strange, new places, he’s also pounding my shoulders, legs, back and hips. Each day, I wake to aching muscles in different bodily areas, wondering what I did to deserve the misery.

Of course, Marj also has a theory on Father Time’s nightly below-the-neck smack down:

Wise Marj: “Yep, that’s your Body Bingo.”

Me: “Huh?”

Wise Marj: “You know. It’s when you wake up each morning, feeling what’s sore, trying to remember what you did the day before to hurt yourself in that particular spot. That’s the Body Bingo.”

I asked Wise Marj what I could do to fight Father Time’s nasty board game.

Really. Why do I bother asking? I knew her answer just as soon as she shrugged and uttered the words from her wise old mouth:

“It’ll only get worse.”

Dawn Weber is a Brownsville writer, wife and mother of two pre-teens. She commutes daily to Columbus for her full-time job.

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