Not too long ago, I attended a kick-off party hosted by a prominent interior designer. Prior to the party, I’d only seen him in magazine advertisements. Never in person. When I first entered the gathering with a friend—who was part of the event planning— he split to do some obligatory schmoozing. I went to the bar. One drink and 20 minutes later, I was introduced to the designer/host. Were his name excluded from the introduction, I doubt I would have known it was he. Why? Because (as I later deduced in conjunction with gossiping confirmations) he’d had a facelift, nose job and chin implant. Whether he’d had his eyes done was left at questionable status. So was his age. But whatever, in fact, is his actual age, its proximity is not far from mine. We are both hovering near 50.
Perhaps it was boredom waiting for my friend to complete his PR schmoozing? Perhaps it was my second glass of wine that caused it? But while I waited, I began to scrutinize the social gathering—cutting through the crowd for further signs of cosmetic surgery. Suffice it to say, a good amount of the women had pulled a decade or two off their age. And as for the men, there were three or four—all of whom I know to be gay, all of whom I also know to be around my age—who’d (obviously) had “work done.” So continuing to kill time, I began to consider what had driven the not-very-old gaggle of gays to submit to surgery. And because we are close in age, I was also forced to face my own facts. The reflection was far from flattering: no facelift for me … because I’m too chicken. Thus, after continued scrutiny, I acquired a sort of distorted admiration for their bravery when it came to their false façade. Yet at the same time, it was depressing to acknowledge that, as my peers, barely into midlife, they were already cutting corners to conceal their age.
Four years ago, when I began writing this column, my purpose was to “be the face of middle-aged gay.” And so here’s the part where I want to lie and tell you I think the whole plastic surgery thing is gross. I want to take the position that I felt sorry for them. That doing “things” to their faces is sad and pathetic. That trying to stay afloat in the fountain of youth inevitably leads to sinking feelings. But, I can’t. Why? Because, like many of the aging gay men around me, I’m no different. I too feel the pressures of maintaining a youthful appearance. And, although I fear the cutting effects of plastic surgery, I also fear being deemed obsolete by our youth-obsessed community. And so, if I’m going to put my “best” face forward, then here’s truth: the week before my 45th birthday, in my own little way, I too gave in—I had Botox injected into the big, deep annoying wrinkle in my forehead. For the next five months, my demeanor was void of my infamous raising of my right eyebrow over questionable situations—like men who get facelifts.
As of late, I am fortunate enough to be off the market. Loved by someone who adores the big, deep, annoying crease in my forehead. He thinks, “Men should look like men” and “age gracefully.” Thus, making honest declarations a little easier. Yet, still I am constantly surrounded by examples of gay men who are struggling with their barely-middle-age.
It goes without saying that, as Hollywood homos, we are ensconced in the allure— or warped standards, (depending on your “reflection”)—of celebrity perfection. I’m all for fixing a broken nose or covering a scar, but as a community, do we also fixate on unrealistic images of youth and perfection? And by doing so, are we just further perpetuating poor image/self-esteem issues for subsequent generations?
To say that, at some point in every person’s life, we stop and stand in front of the mirror and ask the inevitable question: Am I handsome, pretty, cute? We do this while pinching a fat roll or pushing our noses one direction or another. We do this as teenagers. We do this when embarking on swimsuit season. We do this while considering outfits in the mirror or while contemplating what underwear to put on—if any—before an intimate encounter. But to erase, with surgery, the marks time has bestowed upon us, to me, seems as if we are not only making it harder on ourselves, but also perpetuating the myth that there is nothing left to offer once gay men reach a certain age. Again, here’s the part where I want to say only positive things, but, like the majority of women who have been faced with unrealistic, youth-obsessed body imaging, I can’t. Yet, because of my age, if I complain that I hate how my community—fearful of aging—(generally) treats men after a certain age, then I’m viewed as bitter.
And therein lies the conundrum: Along with the deep annoying wrinkle in my forehead, as I muddle through midlife, my aging process has taught me one very important lesson—self-confidence is sexy, and there can be no cheating when attempting to acquire such a trait. Life experience is the only answer. But can the position be appreciated by the proceeding generations, if we as a community don’t embrace it? If we buy into the myth that youth is the most desirable trait, don’t we lose our mature men? One way or the other?
Through the aging process, like trees, nature creates majestic pillars of the community— if we don’t cut into them first. If one looks past the exterior of said “trees,” interior rings can be found,marks that showcase growth, experience, knowledge. And it is those marks of time that should be proudly displayed as stoic reminders of endurance and perseverance. They should be appreciated for the protection they have afforded us in the continued fight for equality and recognition. Age is not something to be cut away and turned into something else, but something to climb on and enjoy the view. But— as they say, the knife cuts both ways, depending on how you see it.
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