Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“You shouldn’t be pretty. I mean, you are, but you shouldn’t be.”

I was 27 years old at the time, and my friend proceeded to go down a list, feature by feature, of what was wrong with my looks.

“Your hairline is too low. I think your eyes are too close together. Your nose has a hump, and your cheekbones are too square.”

He went on and on, and I allowed it, because I was 27 and did not know that I could say:

“Thanks for your thoughts, but please don’t share any more on this topic.”

I didn’t have that in me then. I have it now. Now I would most likely say:

“I love you, and you can feel free to shut the fffff up!”

I guess it is human nature. If you hold yourself up and out as a looker, folks will hunt the flaws. And we all have those… except maybe Gisele Bündchen, not counting her taste in men.

I get a lot of compliments. People often comment on my looks, almost always in a positive light. I barely register it, except to feel that I have done my job, which is to solicit that response.

“It’s always so great to see you!”

A man who also hikes on the trails I love says this every single time he sees me.

“You and your dog are just beautiful. Always look so nice.”

He often slaps his knees for emphasis. His wife, meanwhile, sports a look on her face that says, ‘Not all of us are happy to see you.’ I can’t say I blame her.

My dog drinks in compliments. He loves to be told he’s beautiful. He is remarked upon more often than I am these days, and I am good with that. Let the dog have his day.

Of course, I have always had my critics, a great, good gaggle of them. My favorite was a powerful casting director who regularly told anyone, and often whole crowds of people, how little he thought of me.

“Beth Broderick. Ugh. I mean, I don’t get it. She’s ugly, and she can’t act.”

It hurt my feelings, of course, but they were assuaged by the fact that I was getting great roles and more than my fair share of positive attention. If you put a shiny object in their path, some folks are going to shoot at it.

I have heard so many women who are over 50 say that they feel invisible. I have certainly experienced that. Last year, I attended a Christmas party with my pal Jeff at a young friend’s place. The attendees ranged in age from 28 to, say, 34. They were not impolite; they just had zero interest in we two oldsters. We made the rounds and attempted a few conversations, then turned to each other and made the mutual decision to head on home. We had dogs at home, pajamas, and a few Times puzzles yet to be solved. Home sounded great.

TURN THE OTHER CHEEK.

In the main, though, I don’t feel invisible. People know, or are pretty certain they know, who I am. I still feel obligated to look my best when I go out to restaurants or a show, but I have made a new resolution about that. My new mantra is: You are 66. There’s no time left for trying to live up to who you once were. You can’t. It’s impossible. There are wrinkles and spots and droops and drags. It’s time to let that go.

For the most part, I do. I know it’s a part of the laws of nature. We need to attract mates so that we can keep this species going, at least for as long as nature can abide us. She’s showing signs of wanting a few billion of us to take our leave. We are draining the life from this planet, polluting the waters, fouling the air, and crowding out the wild places with Walmart fulfillment centers. You can’t blame her for tossing a few hurricanes our way, a good-sized earthquake here and there, or the occasional tsunami or two or three. She’s a wee bit angry with our lot.

I am certainly not in the “mate-attracting” business anymore. I can barely remember to get a massage. I have to write it down.

GET MASSAGE! NEED HUMAN TOUCH. MUST HAVE CONTACT.

I’ve been meaning to for six months. It’s, you know… on the list.

It was only a matter of time before this topic took us to the subject of young people today and some of the “beautifying” features they are adopting, because this stuff drives me nuts. I have become that old lady who tsk-tsks at the new trends I see around me. I know that the young need to be concerned about appearances, but in this age of artificial everything, some of it is getting out of hand.

There are four young women (at least; there could be more that I just haven’t run into) who have had their behinds enhanced to the point of parody. They are huge, and they don’t move in a way that resembles human flesh. Each butt cheek looks like it contains fifteen baby raccoons fighting in a sack.

One young gal has a teeny frame. She has a waist about twenty-four or twenty-five inches, tops, and above it an obviously fake set of breasts, much too large for her body. But when she turns around, the mind is boggled. She has a prosthetic posterior that is enormous, wildly out of proportion. I try not to stare at the poor girl, but my eyes are drawn to the sight, like those of drivers straining to see the accident on the other side of the freeway. I have to force myself to look away. I saw her seated on a machine the other day, and the material beneath her bubbled up around her like a balloon squeezed from the middle.

There are three others that I have counted with the same sort of glaringly obvious artificial behinds. They also have enlarged lips so pouty that they threaten to be sucked into nostrils, breasts that do not match their body types, and my pet peeve, those weird fake lashes that look like spiders perched on eyelids.

I blame the Kardashians. They are just doing it to hold our gaze; I guess that’s their job. But their influence is startling and pervasive. They are the actual accident on the other side of the freeway. It seems we are all staring at them, trancelike, trying to figure out what new surgery they’ve had. It’s actually reported in the news. The unveiling of each new procedure is an event. “Khloé gets new knockers!!!” It’s news!!!

Gone are the days when folks had to slip in through the back door at the surgeon’s office. The K’s dispense the “gift” of surgical advice as words from the wise. Young women flaunt these dubious enhancements like badges of honor.

I am sure that older people looked at the fashions and glamorous posings of my generation and thought we were outrageous, silly, and lacking decorum. They were probably right. Americans have not dressed well since the 1940s, and this surgery stuff has been around in my business forever and in the general population for a good while.

I am guilty of wanting to look my best, of submitting to the siren call of beauty trends, so I suppose I am not one to talk. But those butts! Seriously? I mean …

… Dang! Double dang!

On we go …

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