Has our Botox generation lost the art of aging gracefully?

Lately, I find myself jealous of my grandmothers. They were allowed to age in peace.

Of course, they did what they could to take care of themselves. Both were Holocaust survivors who dressed well and never left the house without a touch of makeup. One of my grandmothers even kept a jar of Olay in her pocketbook. But their wrinkles, their lines, the slow softening of their faces? That was something that happened to everyone. When someone looked like they had miraculously turned back the clock, it was a noteworthy exception, and everyone knew it was the likely result of surgical intervention.

Not anymore. It seems that Ponce de Leon has finally found the Fountain of Youth, and everyone drinks from the springs of Botox and Juvederm.

Let me be clear — I have no moral issue with injectables; I’ve used them myself. What bothers me is the judgment surrounding anyone who chooses to embrace the natural aging process. It’s a judgment that claims there is something wrong or shameful about aging. It’s a judgment that says a woman shouldn’t allow herself to be seen this way.

She doesn’t look the way she used to, people say. Look how much she’s changed, they say. She used to look so much better, they say.

It hardly takes a minute for all that judgment to boomerang. You could almost hear people think, What about me? Maybe it’s true for me, too.

And then, I really need to start doing something.

About four years ago, I had a Zoom meeting with a woman I had never met. I set up my computer and hopped on the call, where we met for the first time. I’ll never forget her first words to me.

“Zoom has a filter you could use,” she said.