Sixties Chick

“Happy Birthday, come on down,” my Brazilian ex-sister-in-law shouted over the phone. “You’ll stay here.  I’ll take care of you while you recuperate.

She was suggesting that I avail myself of her talented–and very reasonable—plastic surgeon who has already performed three facelifts on her. He’s also seen her on more than one occasion for liposuction and, most recently, for a tummy tuck in which belly fat was scooped up and then deposited derriere to correct the inevitable pull of gravity.

“I told the doctor to make me look 20 again,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll never stop.” She’ll be 60 this year.

A few days ago, I officially became a member of what a friend of mine dubbed the Circle of Elders, celebrating a milestone birthday whose number brings with it the inevitable thoughts of aging, its byproducts, death itself. Though it’s only a number, it is formidable nonetheless.

The week leading up to the “big” day was marked by the nagging sense that there was to be a new relationship between me and my mortality. A new plateau, if you will, from which to view what was still to come. How I chose to feel about it, clearly, was entirely up to me.

The notion of circle of elders really helps. I love the sound of it. I love what it conjures up: the go-to wise woman, seated cross-legged around the tribal fire, bedecked with feathers, beads and blanket, serene and all-knowing.

Learned in the ways of the world and the laws of the universe, she is valued for her well-honed wisdom, venerated for her hard-earned open heart. The craggy wrinkles on her face are nothing but a testament to a life fully lived. I like to picture myself around that fire.  I adore feathers.

Still, I confess, my ex-sister-in-law’s pleas pestered me all week long.  A slight snip around the eyes, a little tweak at the neck. Is it so unreasonable to want the crow’s feet gone? Youth is so compellingly beautiful. A siren song to be sure. Even for those of us who know it’s not what matters, it matters.

So I have spent the past week trying to fit plastic surgery into the framework of my philosophy, to justify a nip and a tuck with my yearning for self-acceptance and aging with grace. I cannot seem to reconcile the two.

In fact, I’m feeling that inherent in this question of “circle of elders vs. plastic surgery” lays the  opportunity for an evolutionary leap; one propelled by 80 million of us baby boomers taking a stand for what counts, for what is real—like we did those many years ago. Plastic surgery? The cult of youth? We could just say “No”.

And this “No” could turn out to be our shining moment, our generation’s chance to leave a mark more indelible than, say, rock and roll or even legalized pot. It could be our Rosa Park’s moment, a chance to refute that bad rap we’ve picked up as self-absorbed and indulgent.

But it’s hard to buck the trend. Even Jane Fonda succumbed. She could have taken the lead once again with a clarion call far more radical than Hanoi Jane’s. But we are confused, we humans, so easily drawn to the beautiful package, forgetting that it’s all about what’s inside.

Really, though, at the core, it is about finally dealing with death. It is about forging a new relationship with life’s natural conclusion.

So the question is: Can we, the wide-eyed, love children of yesteryear, can we finally fulfill our destiny and change the consciousness of this culture for the good?

Can we, instead of focusing on our sagging behinds, be the generation that makes it trendy to age, cool to be old and okay to die?  Let’s at least try.

This entry was posted on May 16, 2012 at 6:58 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.