PAGE 6

Skin

I have cream for my face. I have lotion for my arms and legs. I have oil for my bath. I have Vaseline for my feet. I cannot begin to tell you how much time I spend rubbing these moisturizers into myself. But I still get pimples on my face and rough patches on my arms and legs. What's more, the skin on my back is so dry that when I take off a black sweater it looks as if it's been in a snowstorm, and the skin on my heels has the consistency of a loofah.

I have no doubt omitted something where maintenance is concerned. The world of maintenance is changing every second, and I may not know about all sorts of things that women my age are up to. (The other day, for instance, I had lunch with a friend who assured me that I hadn't lived until I had tried having some sort of facial that seems to include a mild form of electroshock.)



What I know is that I spend a huge amount of time with my finger in the dike, and that doesn't begin to include all the things I promised not to go into—the pathetic things. I have never had plastic surgery, but I have done any number of things that fall just short of it. I even had all the fillings in my mouth replaced with white material, and I swear to God it took six months off my age. From time to time my dermatologist shoots a hypodermic needle full of something called Restylane into my chin, and it sort of fills in the saggy parts.

But the other day, on the street, I passed a homeless woman, and as I watched her shuffle down the street, it crossed my mind that I am only about eight hours a week of maintenance away from looking exactly like her—with frizzled flyaway gray hair I would probably have if I stopped dyeing mine, with a pot belly I would definitely develop if I ate just half of what I think about eating every day, with the dirty nails and chapped lips and mustache and bushy eyebrows that would be my destiny if I ever spent even two weeks on a desert island.

Eight hours a week and counting. By the time I reach my 70s, I'm sure it will take at least twice as long. The only consolation I take in any of this is that when I'm very old and virtually unemployable, I will at least have something to do. Assuming, of course, that I haven't spent all my money doing it.

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