Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the vainest bitch of them all?

The other night, I had a dream. (No, this is not MLK-caliber, but it wasn’t nonsensical so it might actually make some sense. Stay tuned. Because yes, I know there’s nothing worse than having to a) listen to someone describe their dream from the night before and b) listen to someone describe a funny commercial you’ve never seen before. BORING.)

In it, I was at a party, seated at a table next to people I was unfamiliar with. The lady next to me said, “Is that a maternity dress you’re wearing?”

Now, if I had this dream 10 years ago, the dream-me probably would have burst into tears. But today? This middle aged dreaming bitch wasn’t having it.

I turned to her and said, “Is there a particular reason you’re dressed like a 1980s crack hooker working the strip in Vegas?”

Honest to Pete. I by-God got ornery in a dream. I woke up tickled with myself and my ability to fire off totally cunty remarks when called for.

I’ve blogged many times about how I think that, besides the numbers part of it creeping up on my ass, I actually kind of like getting older. Really – there are beaucoup advantages. I want to be one of those old memaws who doesn’t hesitate to beat your ass with a cane as I fly by you on my Hoveround. I want to – if I’m (lucky, fortunate, unfortunate) enough to live to be 80 – not give a sweet goddamn what anyone has to say about me. You know old people: they fall into two categories. Those who get old, fat and sweet as time goes by, and those who morph into politically-incorrect turds who won’t hesitate to hurt a bitch’s feeling.

But there’s another thing about aging. My generation (I’m at the tail-tail end of X) ain’t the same as my grandmother’s. She grew up in the Depression and earned every damned wrinkle she had. They worked in the sun without sunscreen, they didn’t get manicures, they didn’t have La Mer cream to writhe around in, and vanity was not an issue – feeding your chirruns was.

I think it’s my mother’s generation that really got to start fooling around with facelifts and shit. And now, women my age don’t even have to resort to that – we’ve got Botox and fillers and fake titties galore. No telling what our (okay, YOUR) kids will have available to them.

So whether we like to admit it or not, I think we’re a pretty vain bunch. And if we know someone who’s not, it’s a miracle, because every day we’re bombarded with advertisements for new creams, potions and anti-aging treatments while simultaneously having to see Hollywood types at every turn, who seemingly start to panic at the age of 23 and begin subjecting themselves to all sorts of shit.

For example, saw a picture of Cindy Crawford the other day, and the blogger was speculating on her alleged Botox use. They showed a late 80s Cindy vs. the Cindy of now and it was staggering. Now, this woman is beautiful (in a mannish sort of way, to say nothing of the mole which has always bothered me) and she even has her own beauty line! Doesn’t said beauty line sort of insinuate that one doesn’t need to have surgery to achieve great skin and a youthful appearance?

Of course, on the opposite spectrum of that is someone like Helen Mirren (my mother’s generation) who looks ah-may-zing, not like she’s been shot full of silicon and ass fat. And Kate Winslet promises that she’s not going to have anything done, that she is going to “age gracefully,” whatever in the fuck that is.

Despite the big azz scar on my face, I will admit to being quite vain. I probably have $10,000 worth of beauty products in my “makeup room.” Yes, I have a makeup room. It was why I wanted my apartment – 2 bedrooms, 2 bath and a den that really would have been the perfect place for my dining room table, chairs and buffet. But no. I put an old pink desk in there and bought a bunch of shelving from IKEA and it’s my MAKEUP ROOM. (And the location of Butters’ litterbox. Which is also pink.) I go in there every morning to get ready. I am almost as obsessed with beauty products as I am with Alex Skarsgard and  saying the word “fuck.” (Funny how those last two obsessions oftentimes go together.)

Maybe it’s genetics, or maybe it’s all the Strivectin and Chanel creams, but I have the skin of someone who’s 22. (This is also due in large part to one of the few gifts God gave fat girls: we don’t age like our skinny counterparts. WORD.) I can’t exactly be vain about my body, because it’s the body of a stocky Greek chick who birthed out a Duggar-sized army of children. But I am vain about getting just the right dewiness to my makeup, about curling my eyelashes with a heater curler, about lipstick that stays on 16 hours and still looks fresh.

My point is, I wonder how I will handle aging, because I’m just now sort of conscious of it. I never worried about it much in my 20s — I just stayed my lily-white ass out of the sun and smeared on Oil of Olay whenever I was standing still. But let me say unequivocally that when I find my first gray hair (which may never happen because red coloring goes on that shit every 6 – 8 weeks) I will shit a bowling ball. Ditto with finding crow’s feet. I’m not about to be the type to start shoving my lips full of restalyne (I’m like the only living woman alive who seems to be happy with her natural lips — I have no desire to, as Michael K would say, have lips that look like a  gorilla’s swollen asshole)

(a lined bra would also not be out of the question, supertits)

because it looks unnatural, but would I be above a well-done face lift when I’m 50? Or Botox when I’m 40? I mean, I’ve had vast experience with plastic surgeons before because of the scar. I know what they can do. Shit is amazing, and it gets more amazing and undetectable as the years go on.

So what I’m saying is, I don’t quite know the boundaries of my own (future) vanity. As much as I’d like to be all, “That’s right, assholes! I’m going to age naturally!” I’ve sort of already acted to the contrary, what with all my anti-aging creams and hair dye and concealer and shit. And the only thing that would stop me in the future from having a little work done is money, probably. But I also haven’t felt that quiet desperation yet, of looking in a mirror and feeling suddenly old. But if I ever do get that feeling one day, I have some decisions to make. And for the life of me, I don’t know what they’ll be.

Are you adamantly against plastic surgery and fillers, or do you think all’s fair in the war of aging?