is aging gracefully our modern myth?

The other day, over crusty bread and sardines at Il Buco al Mare in Amagansett, I spotted an acquaintance that I hadn’t seen for a decade. She wasn’t a frenemy per say; we liked each other enough to suggest that we should get together when we ran into each other - but not enough to do it.

She looked well, if potentially GLP-1 adjacent, a microdose perhaps. A Hermes Porosus Ring purse hung from her arm with the kind of nonchalance that told me her circumstances had improved dramatically since we were in our 20s.

Part of the reason I found her tough back then was that she’d had an ingratiating manner, a saccharine air that made everyone feel slightly dubious about her end game. Whatever had happened to her in the last decade - self-possession, a closet full of Hermes or both - had cured her of that. She offered a dismissive smile, a quick rundown of her childrens’ camp schedules and a tease of her upcoming Ischia trip. No questions for us. And then, just as she turned to leave, she said quizzically: “Your skin looks good. Is it something you’re getting at the French pharmacy?”

Does it still count as aging gracefully if you are clenching your youth, knuckles white, face and body bathed in Japanese sunscreen, with your credit card out for the taking?

My friend raised her eyebrows at me to acknowledge the irony of this personality shift before launching into a story about an art scandal that was sending her whole office into frenzy. But I was secretly reveling in the compliment, even if it was begrudging.

I’d been starting to think I was getting out of hand. The amount of money and time I spend on my skin is likely offensive to the average human.

And yes, I’ve seen considerable improvement. But is the obsession actually worth it or is it another facet of the wellness industry complex, where we must be doing constantly to feel like we have control over the inevitable consequence of life? Which is that, eventually, it ends. And if we’re lucky, not in a sudden bolt, but with a slow deterioration, wrinkled and shriveled and shrinking, so we can think, well, she lived a long, happy life.

Sometimes I think that if I subscribed to a different religion, like that of my husband, who uses one product head to toe - typically the first product that he picks up in the morning, regardless of use case - the lack of stress about all of this might actually make my skin better. (I didn’t test this theory. For obvious reasons.)

Products are one thing, and I believe in the power of an effective skincare routine, but there came a day (for me, it was when I turned 40), that skincare became secondary. More and more often, I found myself at the doctor’s office, wincing as the needles went in, not just for botox (child’s play!), but for salmon sperm, hyaluronic cocktails, vitamin C, my own blood.

In the last six months, I’ve done the below in pursuit of skin vitality:

(These grades are highly subjective, and I am happy to go into my evaluations of each but I didn’t want this essay to become a novel in your inbox. But feel free to ask in the comments if you want justification on my non-scientific evaluations.)

1. Injected salmon sperm into my face - A-

2. Bought a serum made from human platelets- A+