If you're under the age of, say, forty, you probably shouldn't read this diary. I'm going to be talking about all the things your mothers didn't warn you about ... and you might not be able to handle the information.
Looking back, my own mother only gave me two warnings. "The skin on your neck ages first. Always apply moisturizer to your neck," and the universal "Stay out of the sun. Too much sun causes wrinkles."
Oy. If wrinkles were the only thing you have to look forward to.
One of the first big shocks in store for you is bifocals. Even if you already wear glasses, the day will come when you won't be able to read anything close up. First you'll hold things at arms length - and that works for a while - but before long you'll have to put your newspaper on the kitchen table, stand up, and step back a pace. The same summer I turned forty I found myself with this problem, exacerbated by an optometrist who looked about twelve. "You need bifocals," he informed me. "How can that be?!" I whined. "You're getting old," said the child.
Take my advice: don't get bifocals. That telltale line across the middle will remind you that your youth has fled every time you get a (now clear) glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Splurge on progressive lenses. Trust Nurse Kelley on this one.
While we're talking about eyes, let's talk about cataracts. Twenty years after the child optometrist killed my youth, I scheduled an appointment with a (more mature) optometrist because I needed a change in my prescription. I'm very spoiled about my vision. In glasses since the age of ten, my vision has always been correctable to at least 20/20. You can't imagine my shock when I was told that those days are over - at least for now - because my deteriorating vision is the result of cataracts. Cataracts! That damn sun my mother told me to avoid is the culprit here. The cataract on my left eye is developing much faster than the right, no doubt from sunlight coming in the driver's side window and striking my left eye which was seldom covered by wraparound sunglasses. Wraparounds are seldom fashionable, you see, and God forbid I should wear unfashionable sunglasses.
I could really give you the shivers by talking about glaucoma and retinitis pigmentosa and diabetic retinopathy ... but let's move along to hair. You may think it's just a case of which man won the hair lottery and doesn't go bald, but you would be only partly right. Man or woman, as we age hair has a tendency to stop growing where we want it (or at least expect it) and start growing in unexpected places. Think you'll always have pubic hair and hair under your arms? It's not a given, especially for women. You young guys can look forward to sprouts of hair poking out of your ears and nostrils, and the ladies may find themselves plucking pubic hairs off their chinlines and removing lovely moustaches every couple of weeks. To add insult to injury, your hair - if you keep it - will lose its color AND change textures. Your eyebrows - moving ever closer to your eyeballs, thanks to gravity - will thin out and paradoxically grow in length. Budget for tiny scissors to go along with your tweezers.
The next horror has to do with the largest organ of our bodies, our skin. Perhaps you think the only thing you have to worry about is wrinkles and skin cancer. OMFG. Let me introduce you to skin tags, actinic keratoses, spreading moles, mysterious blotches, broken veins, disappearing collagen, and age spots. (To name just a few.) Consider dermatology as a career: there are five hundred diseases and only three creams; your patients will never die on you but few of them will get better; and your nights and weekends will be your own. Hurry - think of all the baby boomers and their aging skin.
You don't hear much about gravity these days, but you may come to hate gravity more than anything. Sometimes I think my body is beginning to melt. My mother was right - the neck is the first thing to go. It is not, unfortunately, the last. I've already mentioned how your eyebrows will, over time, attempt to touch your eyeballs. Have you ever glanced at your elbows while trying to get a look at your backside in the mirror? No? Do so. Enjoy them while you can, for soon enough they'll be covered with loose skin. (Along with your knees.) Don't even get me started on tubes - I mean, boobs - which will one day attempt a conversation with your waist if you're a woman. You guys? You don't even want to know what's going to happen to your testicles.
Nothing escapes the ravages of gravity. You've heard the expression "getting thick in the waist"? It's not just fat that will one day thicken your waist. I recently stood naked in front of a full-length mirror (perhaps the last time I'll do THAT) and picked up a hand mirror so I could examine my back. I've noticed a definite waist thickening in recent years despite weighing the same thing for a quarter of a century, and the mirror told my why: skin that used to be around my midriff is heading south and now rests on my waist. Holding the hand mirror with one hand, I gently pulled my skin back north with the other, revealing my long-lost waist. (Nurse Kelley needed a sherry after that experience.) Gravity, by the way, is the single greatest reason to NOT get tattoos. Sure, that tasteful butterfly on your butt might look good NOW, but please consider the day your taut rear becomes a sag on your thigh.
The aging body begins to make alarming noises. Some days I don't know if I'm hearing myself or my coffee maker. Popping joints don't bother me so much if they're painless, but I make this ... sound ... whenever I get up out of an easy chair. Sort of a weak version of a tennis player's grunt. What's that about? My friends all seem to be doing it, too. The worst thing that happens in the noise department has to do with the fact that everything that should be tight gets loose. Your body has all these nice sphincters that keep what's inside from getting outside until and unless you want it to get out. Let me warn you about something. Your ability to control your burps and belches and farts and even urine flow deteriorates over time. Some of my friends wet their pants when they laugh or cough. One of us - I'm not saying who - has what we call the walking farts: step - toot - step - toot - step - toot. If you haven't found a life partner by the time you're fifty, forget about a dignified romance.
There's more to tell, but I'll let you digest this much before we move on to prolapsed uteri, bulging prostates, and flaccid penises.
Class dismissed.