I was in my late thirties when my Miami youth began to show up on my face. The changes were minor. A freckle beneath one eye on my olive skinned unfreckled face. A few discolorations on my cheekbones, corresponding to where I used to smear baby oil and lie in the sun on Crandon Park beach with my friend Jennifer. I had been trying to add ruddiness to a face that only got darker in the sun, never red, I thought I was creating the illusion of high cheekbones on a face I was too critical of, never appreciating the beauty of youth. When we got too warm, we’d wade into the ocean and sit in chest deep water, talking, turning browner, never thinking about the skin in our futures.
So when a few darks spots showed up, reality struck me in the face. I owned a coffeehouse, and my female teenage employees were hitting the tanning booths hard that spring, preparing for prom. I wanted to tell them not to do it. At least when I looked at the new freckles overtaking my arms, I remembered water skiing, and the briny salt spray of Biscayne Bay. These were the scars of pools, beaches, boats, tennis courts. Bike rides under the Miami sun. They would remember paying to lie in a box under lights, probably to impress a boy they no longer knew or cared about. I knew enough about youth to say nothing. At seventeen, thirty eight isn’t real.
My mother came up from Florida for a visit that spring. After spending time at a park with the granddaughters, my tennis-playing, lap-swimming, sailorly athletic mother sat down hard in a chair and said “Old age is hard, Nina.” Her back was hurting.
Here was my chance. My teen employees didn’t want to hear from their thirty eight year old selves, but I could talk to my future. And listen. So I asked her. If she could tell her younger self something to address the problem she was having now, what would she say?
“Take calcium and do crunches.” No hesitation. She had thought about this.
I have never liked supplements, so I took half the advice. I began doing thirty eight crunches a night. It was hard at first. I’d stop, continue, stop again. The stops grew fewer, until I banged them out easily. After my birthday, I began doing thirty nine crunches daily. On my fortieth birthday, I upped the count to forty. And so on.
My thick hair is graying and my butt is trying to disappear, but beneath the softening skin, I have abs of steel. Okay, maybe not, but at least, aluminum. And while I’m not quite the age my mother was when I asked this question, so far, my back is fine.
Thanks, Mom.
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