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7. THE AGE SPOT (Sept. 2002)
Looks don't matter, right?
And they do.
Here's a little story.
I have a rather small brown spot under my right eye. It's been there a
while. An age spot. Sometimes called liver spot. I've learned to live with it.
Probably the only one who notices it. Anyway, to my recent disgust, I looked in
the mirror one night and there was a similar spot under my left eye. And I hated
it. It came from nowhere. Like a bug jumping on me. And merging with me. A bug
of time, and age, and disfigurement. And damn right I cared about my looks. And
damn right I cared about aging. And if this is how I felt, how does someone feel
who trades on his or her beauty? Who has beauty, or at least handsomeness, to
trade on?
But mine had a happy ending. The spot faded away in the coming days.
Maybe it was some kind of tiny bruise. No, it had an exhilarating
ending. I was so happy to see it fade away. I cared about my looks. Every last
blessed millimeter of them.
But the even funnier story goes back a few years. To tell it in one
sentence: What I thought was a new age spot turned out to be chocolate--- and I
washed it off. And I was very happy. Which gives me sympathy for all the other
washings off--- unto the most elaborate works of plastic surgery.
Damn right we care about our looks. Some people say they don't notice.
Notice how far down in the soil they sleep.
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