Monday, 4/14/97
Clinging on to beauty’s sands of time
Mah ponders on the repercussions of a transitional birthday
Sometimes when I look in the mirror, the face of a 40-year-old
stares back. Though this is slightly incongruent with my
stereotypically "ever-young" Asian features, nevertheless, late at
night or very early in the morning, bags gather, lines cascade down
my cheeks, and my eyes resonate a faded look of tired ennui. It is
a tragic circumstance which can be remedied only by afternoon naps
or huge cups of coffee.
Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday. As a result, though my obsession
with beauty is usually relegated only to my hair (see previous
column: "A Day in the Life of a Beauty Salon Addict"), today I feel
time marching slowly across my face. Aging is a horrible process
that happens to both the beautiful and the damned. And now it’s
happening to me.
I know 22 is not really Old. Yet, it is the first of many
insignificant birthdays. Sixteen and 18 are both worthy milestones,
and 21 is the birthday pinnacle, the wild and crazy celebration of
youth, madness and revelry. I have enjoyed the magic age of 21
because it is, in essence, the perfect age. It combines youth’s
inanity with the added validation of legality; the long arm of the
law does not extend to my valid California driver’s license.
Twenty-two, on the other hand, is not a milestone; it contains no
sense of social ritual; it only indicates the passing of more time.
My next significant birthday will be age 30. The next time I
qualify for a discount, I will be a senior citizen.
Lately I have been affected with a languid, indolent feeling of
listlessness. I feel lethargic, even bored, and, in continuing my
tradition of hypochondria, I have pinned these symptoms to anemia.
However, though my consumption of red meat has dwindled in
proportion to my time spent living in an apartment, in reality, I
do not feel that I am truly suffering from any iron deficiency.
Instead, my fatigue stems from the burden of life’s real problems
settling slowly on my shoulders.
Take, for example, tomorrow. My birthday falls on Tax Day; this
has been a constant source of amusement for my family, the
Department of Motor Vehicles, the passport office. Though in the
past I viewed this as a fun birthday fact, this year April 15 has
become a hot date with myself, the post office and the Internal
Revenue Service. I don’t even have the excuse of not knowing the
deadline. My very date of birth has forced responsibility.
Though I feel my added years and responsibilities have given my
face a certain distinguished maturity, apparently, the rest of the
world does not agree. Only I am privy to the sneak preview of my
40-year-old self, and, in keeping with the aforementioned
stereotype of ever-young Asian features, I am ever carded at
restaurants, bars, grocery stores, even R-rated movies.
My father, whose age shall go unrevealed, was carded last year
in a liquor store – I know he is not making this story up because I
witnessed the amazement. There comes a time when the demand for
legal proof of age evolves from annoyance to flattery; however, I
have not yet reached this point.
Amidst the vague, anticlimactic feeling of age 22, I must admit,
there still remains an excitement to aging. My gerontologist
roommate (who must get her obligatory bi-monthly reference) has
recently pointed out that this column engenders a certain flippancy
towards those who are truly old. Apparently, though there are no
milestones in ages 22 through 29, these are the best years of our
life. And though I am considered old in terms of UCLA and
university life, when examined under the bright light of the
outside world, my youth is gauche, awkward and innocent.
And so, tomorrow is my birthday. There will be no midnight trips
to Westwood. There will be no Prairie Dog Shots, no unpleasant
scenes in the bathroom, no surprise photographs. If I am lucky, I
will eat cake. I still get to eat cake.Ann Mah is a fourth-year
senior, not senior citizen.
Ann Mah