I couldn't have done it myself

Not having found any new facial flaws in the last 48 hours, I’m forced to find something else to gripe about. Nobody ever told me that, in my sixties, I would start to have difficulty clasping bracelets, opening jars, and tearing the protective paper seal off a carton of hummus. I'm fortunate to have a husband who, a few years my junior, can still do these things--most of the time.

I'm also unlucky enough to have reached this stage of life at the same time that manufacturers are making sure no product can be tampered with (even by its legal owner). It's some solace, though, that even twenty-somethings have trouble with the hard plastic clamshell that can't be opened without a butcher knife, if that.

Beauty, where art thou?

It's a lose-lose situation: I use a lighted magnifying mirror because I need one. I'm still nearsighted (although getting more farsighted each year), and the mirror over my bathroom sink is too far away to allow me to put on eyeliner that actually lands at the top of my lashes. But peering into such a magnified view of my face, I discover daily atrocities. For example--and as long as I'm on the subject of eyelashes, where did my long, curly, thick lashes go? When did they get so thin and uninteresting?

And I can't seem to find my lips anywhere. Yes, they're still there, sort of, beneath my nostrils. But they're so...undefined. They're just there, looking neither lucious nor youthful. (Well, what did I expect at this age?)