A good friend of mine here in Bali was just yesterday lamenting "the ravages" that time had wrought on his face and on the "aged carcass which hangs below it". The inexorable march of entropy, he called it. He mentioned the "carry-on bags" under his eyes that had "grown to full suitcases". I saw that the mild double-chin that I thought I had actually now consisted of a set of several full-blown turkey wattles, pendulously quivering with each movement.
Vyt has a certain way with words, God love him; and a fresh, gracious, self-deprecating sense of humor.
And, of course, he's right--which makes me especially thankful for my poor (understatement) eyesight--for I, too, have faced in a well-lit mirror this same sort of tragic collapse of my person. The horror ... the horror.
Gadzooks! What is up with these haunted, hollow, smudgy basement windows that used to be my eyes, and with the drab, rumpled drapery hanging beneath? What is this gossamer little tuft on top of my head that used to be hair? How is it that the skin on my face has retreated into thirsty wrinkles whilst my quite healthy nose has has grown stout and muscular as if it had been doing calisthenics? Or perhaps it has merely sucked all the nutrients from the rest of my face. And then there is that chin ... or those chins! Ah, God help me.
And the truly sad thing is that my face, such as it is, looks significantly better than the rest of my body. I have, for instance, been considering my stomach of late. No matter how little I eat, the stomach yet grows. When I sit, the stomach sits on me. When I stand, I appear to be six months pregnant. I have man tits. One leg is noticeably thinner than the other (so much so that I have been told straight out to wear long pants). And where the hell has my ass gone?
Now, Vyt discovered that, as an alternative to plastic surgery, one may use his fingers at strategic bony locales to stretch his skin and thus regain a bit of youthful appearance .. or, well, not youthful, but a bit less than corpse-like. But, as he noted, the constant employment of both hands to maintain the effect is probably both inconvenient and unreasonable, and, I might add, may end up causing crippling arthritis in both hands and both elbows. Moreover, it's a pretty sure thing that others will be able to guess the trick you're playing.
I have, therefore, come to the same conclusion arrived upon by Vyt--to whit, I will avoid looking into mirrors (which has been my practice for not a few years anyway). No point in ruining one's day every day. And yet, one cannot escape the fact that one's face is a mirror for all other eyes, though the reflection may be tempered with a well intentioned attempt at casting a kinder light--which is to say that they may smile and call you Father or Grandfather, and comment that you look distinguished today.
Vyt has a certain way with words, God love him; and a fresh, gracious, self-deprecating sense of humor.
And, of course, he's right--which makes me especially thankful for my poor (understatement) eyesight--for I, too, have faced in a well-lit mirror this same sort of tragic collapse of my person. The horror ... the horror.
Gadzooks! What is up with these haunted, hollow, smudgy basement windows that used to be my eyes, and with the drab, rumpled drapery hanging beneath? What is this gossamer little tuft on top of my head that used to be hair? How is it that the skin on my face has retreated into thirsty wrinkles whilst my quite healthy nose has has grown stout and muscular as if it had been doing calisthenics? Or perhaps it has merely sucked all the nutrients from the rest of my face. And then there is that chin ... or those chins! Ah, God help me.
And the truly sad thing is that my face, such as it is, looks significantly better than the rest of my body. I have, for instance, been considering my stomach of late. No matter how little I eat, the stomach yet grows. When I sit, the stomach sits on me. When I stand, I appear to be six months pregnant. I have man tits. One leg is noticeably thinner than the other (so much so that I have been told straight out to wear long pants). And where the hell has my ass gone?
Now, Vyt discovered that, as an alternative to plastic surgery, one may use his fingers at strategic bony locales to stretch his skin and thus regain a bit of youthful appearance .. or, well, not youthful, but a bit less than corpse-like. But, as he noted, the constant employment of both hands to maintain the effect is probably both inconvenient and unreasonable, and, I might add, may end up causing crippling arthritis in both hands and both elbows. Moreover, it's a pretty sure thing that others will be able to guess the trick you're playing.
I have, therefore, come to the same conclusion arrived upon by Vyt--to whit, I will avoid looking into mirrors (which has been my practice for not a few years anyway). No point in ruining one's day every day. And yet, one cannot escape the fact that one's face is a mirror for all other eyes, though the reflection may be tempered with a well intentioned attempt at casting a kinder light--which is to say that they may smile and call you Father or Grandfather, and comment that you look distinguished today.
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