RADICAL HONESTY

by Patty Clark

My eight and ten-year-old granddaughters found artistic fulfillment recently in sketching my portrait. Undeniably great work, but I still had to ask, “What’s up with all those wrinkles?” “That’s your face,” one of them said. The other helpfully clarified, “We didn’t even draw all of them.” What was I to do when earnest truth-tellers come at me with the conviction of Renaissance masters?? Unable to leave well enough alone, the eldest leaned in and said, “Hold still. There’s more on your neck.” I began mentally drafting a dignified rebuttal, and quipped, “Remind me again why I love you so much?”

Imagine the level of cleverness it took to sculpt me so vividly. Representations so confident in execution, yet somehow missing my best feature. An unfortunate oversight, considering my eyebrows are the crown jewels… on good days of proper penciling. It wasn’t the worst-case scenario. They could’ve accessorized me with a cane. To be fair, they gave me good smiles. Still, I was confronted with honesty, and considered asking them for a second drawing. Say from across the street, at dusk, during a light fog…ideally with their eyes closed. Forget flattering lighting. If you want to know what you look like, just ask a kid. Preferably two, so you can confirm it’s not just one of them being ruthless. I ran to get a cookie for emotional support. They took half the bag for their creative artistry.

It usually takes me four to seven years to get over things like this. My granddarlings remained completely unbothered by my internal crisis. Known for their unfiltered commitment to accuracy, the oldest had diagnosed my face, the youngest had verified the diagnosis, but neither had proposed a treatment plan. Instead, they simply escalated the matter with investigative curiosity, examining me more closely with a magnifying glass. Just like that, I became the first person to mature faster under amplification - aging three fiscal quarters under ten seconds. Someone should notify science. Men, across the board, seem to approach me with the same urge to zoom in.

I began describing my ongoing and exhaustingly committed efforts to look young. “My quest to stay infantile started years ago with carefully curated habits of plastering on my mother’s skincare staples - eventually developing a restless devotion to Nivea, convinced I was eight layers away from eternal youth.”

They exchanged weird looks, then questioned, “What’s Nivea?”

I said, “It’s hydration.”

They chimed in unison, “What’s hydration?”

I responded, “Water for your face,”

The eldest asked, “Did it work?”

I declared, “Clearly not, or I’d be answering this question from a high chair.”

One of them suggested, “Maybe you didn’t use enough!”

Calculating what is enough, I explained, “I’ve used layers upon layers, to the point that maybe I should quaff down serums internally rather than lather them on lavishly. Drinking the stuff seems like the logical next step. I’m always venturing back into department stores requesting more “this one might be it” creams, adding to my existing inventory of eight-thousand. That’s an incalculable number of dough poured into optimism.”

“What does inclacubul, dough, and opism mean,” the youngest asked.

“It means, I’ve invested heavily in the illusion of progress.”

They stared at me baffled, and decided, “Maybe you should buy more snacks instead!”

I took that under advisement.

Rejecting the old “women can still be sexy in their seventies” narrative, I wondered at what age society plans to stop requiring peak-hot maintenance and simply allow me turn into a battle-tested firecracker - as nature intended. But I do look to God, hoping for a timeline on “this too shall pass.”