Pain in the neck

My trolls love to criticize my appearance. I accept that when you stick your neck out, your neck can take a beating. But they're still annoying.

In 2006, Nora Ephron of “When Harry Met Sally” fame, wrote a book called “I feel bad about my neck.” It’s one of those memoir-ish type books, short chapter essays, that have become quite popular. (See: Glennon Doyle’s “Untamed.” Though I put Ephron head and shoulders above Doyle, for what it’s worth. I’ve read all of Doyle’s books and I have to say, I don’t get the popularity. I don’t know why I keep reading them. I’m trying to understand what people love, I guess. The last one, in particular, seems to be written for 5th graders. Ok I answered my own question — that’s why they are popular.)

Anyway, the Ephron book — which I’ve not read in its entirety, only snippets here and there from my mom’s bookshelf — is all about the indignities of aging. And there are many!

As Janet Maslin wrote in The New York Times in July of 2006, about one of the stand out essays called On Maintenance:

It describes the bare minimum of costly, time-consuming beauty rituals that the author must undergo on a monthly basis, just so that she can continue looking like a reasonable facsimile of herself.

At the end of the essay she spots a gray-haired, bushy-browed, mustachioed homeless woman who is without a decent manicure. Ms. Ephron concludes that she is “only about eight hours a week away from looking exactly like that woman on the street.”

As a 55-year-old woman, I am all too familiar with this. I wouldn’t have understood even ten years ago how quickly things would deteriorate and how much maintenance would be suggested by “professionals.” And now, despite my understanding of what would be required to maintain some level of dignity, I have resisted doing any excessive grooming. I mean, who would I be kidding anyway? My routine is pretty much the same as it was in my twenties, with less black hair dye, red matte lipstick and smoking.

I don’t get manicures. Mostly because I pick my cuticles and I don’t like being scolded by the lady. I get an occasional pedicure. Maybe once every 2-3 months. Not really enough to keep my feet from looking like a grizzly bear’s all but one week a quarter.

My make-up routine takes about 3 minutes, utilizes Walgreen’s bargain bin cosmetics and is implemented about half of the days of the week. The others, I’m bare-faced.

On haircuts and color . . . I go about twice a year. Mostly because I hate talking to strangers. And I’ve yet to find a hair stylist who will allow me to sit in silence. I suck it up every six months because I start to look too frazzled and unkempt. I found a cheap place in walking distance from my house. I’m pretty lucky in that even at 55, I don’t have much gray. I can easily pluck the few errant hairs and appear to be a dark haired maiden from the back.

I had a brief period about 2 years ago, where my hair was falling out in hand fulls. And I really didn’t want to go get it cut because there wasn’t that much of it. Who knows why it happened. Stress I’m guessing. Maybe a combination of stress and menopause. But it stopped and I wake up with a hairless pillow now. Whew. Still, it won’t grow beyond my shoulders. Which sucks. But now I know why older ladies have short hair.

I don’t wear sunscreen. I’m not obsessed with my skin. I’ve been persistently low on vitamin D and I’m constantly told by my doctor I need to take it in pill form. I do. But I also roam freely without sunscreen which seems to help my vitamin D levels and my energy.

I do partake in a bit of Botox. I’m not without vanity. But no fillers (yet). Or lasers. Or surgeries. Nothing too serious. Nothing invasive. When I moved to Denver I didn’t have a person — a dermatologist. So I went a year without. I’m not obsessed with a line-less face. I’m afraid of fillers because the women I see in the wild that get them look weird. Not younger. Just ashamed. And they all start to have the same face after a while. I’ll keep my face. Even if it has lines. Though I suppose I might try just a touch of filler, at some point.

I do try to exercise every day. I strive for at least 12,000 steps. Walking that many steps alone seems to be enough to keep my heart rate low (58 bpm resting), my weight managed (21 BMI, ~122 lbs) and my mood high. Sunlight and steps are my church.

And so . . . given my lack of focus on my own appearance, I was taken aback by comments from some of my most persistent trolls on X, about my neck! I hadn’t noticed, because I don’t examine my appearance in the mirror frequently, but they’ve called out the “banding” that has emerged in my neck. I didn’t know neck bands were a thing! And now I can’t stop thinking about Nora Ephron feeling bad about her neck.

Here are some of the comments:

There are more. But I’m bad at searching Twitter so these can be assumed to sum up the perspective.

“Banding,” as the cosmetic dermatology lingo calls it, usually happens from aging. Check. I got that going.

It can also happen with weight loss. I’ve lost about 10-15 pounds in the past year or two. Not enough to be the driver. But not nothing.

I retain a strong neck and shoulders from years of living on my hands as a gymnast. So that’s a thing, too.

At any rate, I think I look fine and I’m annoyed that these losers made me look up “banding” which is often “treated” with Botox. The miracle drug.

Despite their best efforts, I don’t feel bad about my neck. I do wonder what makes a person say these things to another. I don’t think in my entire life I’ve criticized a stranger’s appearance. Perhaps I’ve mocked Trump’s hair. It’s funny. He mocks his hair.

These supposed “progressives” who troll me would probably identify as “feminists.” Ha. Yeah right. Feminists who place a woman’s value solely in her looks. Or at least a woman with whom they disagree. They also would probably say, well, you criticize trans people’s looks! Quid pro quo!

No. I criticize trans ideology. Men can’t become women. I don’t care if a man wants to dress like a woman. And I don’t make fun of their appearance. But I won’t be forced to say he is a woman. He’s a man. In a dress. Often with a fetish called autogynephilia. And he’s insisting I call him a man and let him into women’s sports and spaces. No. I’m not playing.

So anyway, I’m coming to terms with my neck. Which isn’t hard, really, because I hadn’t even noticed it before Comrade Seagal pointed it out. What I do notice, and dislike much more, are the random hairs sprouting from various parts of my face. Luckily, those tweeze easily.

When you stick your neck out, your neck takes a beating. I’m ok with that.