Talking to Myself

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This is supposed to be relaxing. I’m allowing this woman to press her fingers into my face. She’s criticizing the parts of it I already overanalyzed in the bathroom mirror this morning before plastering my features with foundation and spackle and hoping for the best. “Your skin is dry,” she tells me. “You need to take care of yourself.” I squirm under her touch. Funny, I thought I was taking care of myself. Nevertheless, my facade seems to be cracking.

“You have circles under your eyes. And spider veins in your eyelids. The sun has darkened areas on your forehead and cheekbones. You need …” She begins listing the various creams and lotions I should purchase from her to stave off the inevitable. A part of me scoffs; the other part wishes I had a suitcase of small bills. She’s right; I need.

I am getting older. I am not old—39 is not old—but yes, my face teeters on the crevice of cave-in. I see little puckers on my jaw line where the skin is threatening to sag. I’ve grown two pronounced wrinkles above my nose, a devil’s horn crease that announces both that I’m nearsighted and have led a somewhat naughty life. A deep line runs up my right cheek because I’ve dared to sleep on it for almost four decades.

I’m not vain; at least, I didn’t think I was. My face and I have an understanding: it remains pleasant enough to keep people from screaming as they encounter me on the sidewalk, and I continue to sport it. But now my face is betraying me, for no other reason than I have continued to wear it out. If I look at my face too closely, I pull my cheeks towards my temples and wonder if anyone would notice if I Scotch taped them there, into my hairline. When I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, I slump down until I can only see my eyes. My eyes are young, reflective of who’s still inside.

The woman is wiping something off my face that she slathered on just a minute before. “You know what extractions are, yes?” she asks. I do. The woman begins pushing and shoving at my skin again. God knows what is coming out, what she’s witnessing. I’m exposed to her, sans makeup, and now she’s probing deeper. If she pushes hard enough she might excavate my secrets: my regrets, my affairs, my divorce. I have problem areas. I have clogged pores. If only a good skin cream could cure them all.