The Vanities of Age

“With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.”

~William Shakespeare

My husband, who possesses an honesty I am usually grateful for, told me seven years ago that I looked every bit my age and then some, because I had worked too hard my whole life. Most journalists do, I snapped, and did you want me to spend thousands of dollars on creams and spas and having Work done? I went on, listing my thin Irish skin (my indignation was proving it), the allergies that have me constantly grinding my fists into my itchy eyes or tugging at my skin, the copious amounts of Benadryl (much of which to counter the effects of his damned cat) that had dried my system. I knew he was right, but that did nothing for my mood.

Neither did his solution for the next several years, which was to reassure me by regularly pointing out older women who still looked great. He was drawing a determined aesthetic distinction between looking young and looking good, and he did not understand why so many men worshipped the young. “Why forty virgins when you could have one old broad who knows what she’s doing?” he quoted a comedian saying.

This was supposed to cheer me, but I knew he had no idea how much time, money, and effort I was sure went into even Helen Mirren’s graceful aging. When he mentioned her one fateful morning, I pointed this out. He then threw up his arms in exasperation and asked why women always looked for a subtext. He was only trying to give me a compliment (a rather indirect one, I muttered) by acknowledging the beauty of older women. Why did he even bother? This bit of drama made me apologize—and later wonder why I was the one apologizing, given that it was his earlier frank idiocy that had set us up for this.

His campaign had also prompted me to ease up on the long hours, though—which was his purpose. Men are cannier than they seem. And vanity is a powerful motivator. I come by mine honestly, straight through the DNA. My people do not handle aging well. My mother lied about her age even to doctors. My great-aunt refused to have an ottoman in the house; it smacked of ease and “letting oneself go.” My grandmother shopped like she could afford it and dressed like she had important places to go. Even when infirmity finally erased this façade, a fierce pride remained.

I can still close my eyes and see this once elegant woman, a plaid jacket over her cabbage-rose housecoat for warmth, reaching across to pluck sliced peaches out of my cereal. “Want some fruit, Annie?” I ask, trying hard to keep the horror out of my voice. She has polished off her own cereal, not to mention toast, a cheese Danish, coffee, and Kaopectate. (The accidents are increasing.)

Her hunger angers me. Her abandonment of the manners she insisted on feels like a betrayal. I dump out my cereal and drop the bowl in the sink, heedless of the bone china and the crystal juice classes that cost my grandfather years of bewildered overtime. He never understood her vanity. Would he understand her defiance now, peach juice dribbling down her chin?

“What would you like to do now?” I ask, thinking of the years when she read as voraciously as a medieval monk, wrote clever notes, won at bridge. “Shall we go sit in the living room?”

She draws herself up, pride bringing her back to herself. “No. I don’t go in there.” (The last accident was on the couch.) She begins tracing lace on the placemat, her fingers trembling. I glance around wildly, eager to find a distraction. One of her great-grandkids’ building blocks, maybe, so she could steady her hands against smooth wood, let bright color pierce her cataracts. But Annie never lets them leave toys around. When the duty visits end, you can hear the whoops as they ran to the car, released.

Art, then? She has always craved beauty. I cast around for a painting I can let her explain, but it’s too late; she is no longer interested. By the time we have gone full circle, we have used up wonder.

Had she ever figured out how to love, this time would be so different. My great-aunt conspired to give people presents, spending money she did not have and finagling with a con artist’s skill. My mother stayed funny, for others’ sake; she lit up with love and concern for the rest of us even as she withdrew from her own life. Lie all you want, I whisper to her memory. You did it right.

But those who live as my grandmother did, focused, despite all the kids and grands and great-grands, only on herself? That is true vanity, and at the end, it can no longer be hidden. The rules that fooled the rest of us dissolve, and all that is left is appetite. And a little shame.

Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.