I come from a family that ages very well.
With some cosmetic help.
Grandma Ethel, God bless her, knew her way around a surgeon’s table better than she did her own condo. Pretty and petite into her eighties, she seemed to consider plastic surgery a necessary medical procedure, but other surgeries optional. I’ll never forget her saying about a man she knew who’d had a quadruple bypass that he had “indulged in open heart surgery.” As opposed to her peels and surgeries, the comment implied, which were required.
Other members of my family have had various and sundry procedures to enhance how they look, though you’ll never get me to say who (they’re still alive and I’d thus run the risk of permanent alienation from them if I did).
While I haven’t gone that route yet, there have been some close calls (when I was offered free botox, first by a publicist for a plastic surgeon and second, by my brother — a scientist now working to incorporate biotechnology principles into plastic surgery). Rest assured, I didn’t refuse because I’m not vain or out of some great moral belief that you shouldn’t change what God gave you. I’ve never actually quite understood what the big deal about elective — sorry, Grandma — surgery is. People color their hair to make it fit their aesthetic ideal and go to gyms around the clock (at least where I live they do) to get their bodies in the kind of shape they want them. How is that so different from having an operation?
No, I just haven’t wanted to get on that particular train because I fear — like massages, like visits to the chiropractor, like grande percent lattes — that once you get on, it’s nearly impossible to get off. So I can admire my perfect-looking relatives and, for the moment anyway, be grateful for my surgical innocence.