A Senior Citizen's Lament

I look in the mirror, and what do I see?
Is that a wrinkle staring at me?
Heaven forbid! It's some ghastly mistake,
Perhaps it's frosting from the chocolate cake.
Wait! I'm trying to brush it away,
I know it wasn't there yesterday.

Hmmmmm. I rubbed and I scrubbed but I still see a line.
Well, if it's a wrinkle, at least it's quite fine.
It isn't too long and it isn't too deep.
Maybe it's there because of the way that I sleep.

Someone once told me, never sleep face down;
It'll scrunch up your face so you'll look like a clown.
They said you must sleep on your back or your side;
If not you'll have wrinkles that you never can hide.

Oh, well, one small wrinkle on somebody's face
Isn't a sign of old age or disgrace.
A dab of foundation will surely conceal it;
I won't tell a soul; I'll never reveal it.

One last look to make sure it's all right;
Good grief! I see that I still look a fright.
What do I see now next to my eyes?
I'll take a close look: whoa! --nasty surprise!
It's hard to believe what I think that I see --
A whole bunch of crows must have landed on me.
They must have arrived while I was asleep
Because they left footprints from their big scaly feet.

I'll slather on make-up to cover their tracks
And plaster of paris to fill in the cracks.
Then I'll powder it all with a big fluffy puff
And hope that these measures will be quite enough.

O.K. It's done. What a great disguise.
You can't even see rings under my eyes.
Just one quick check to make sure that I'll pass
For someone much younger --a smooth-skinned young lass!
Yipes! Do I see skin beginning to sag?
Am I starting to look like a real old hag?
And under my chin -- I see real trouble.
One chin is enough -- I don't need a double.
I'll have to keep my head held high
And pretend that I'm looking right up at the sky.
And in my dyed hair, do I see a white streak?
That's just what it is. I look like a freak!

Enough of this whining about my lost youth.
I'm sick of this trying to hide the real truth
I'll scrape off this make-up and wash my face clean
who cares if my wrinkles can clearly be seen?
No longer will aging kindle my fear;
I boldly accept my advancing years.

I'll dress like a crone and let my hair turn all white,
I'll putter around and go to bed before night;
I'll wear my spectacles at the end of my nose,
I'll wear house dresses and roll up my hose.
I'll save a fortune on make-up and clothes,
I'll be a little old lady, and it won't be a pose.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
But since I'm only 64
I'll give myself one year more.
So, Gangway! I'm off to the mall!
To buy cosmetics, paint and all.
Just one more year to paint my face,
and then -- maybe --I'll grow old with grace.

Sylvia Honig Copyright June 1998