By Claire Trost
@clairetrost

The familiar sounds of laughter, gossip, and slamming lockers reverberated off the cold concrete floor. I stacked my folded jeans and carefully selected “first day” top in the small space and slammed my own door adding to the chorus.

After a quick shuffle of the lock with my back to the rest of the room, I slipped on the grey tee shirt emblazoned with the big block letters of my middle school and turned to face the rest of the locker room.

Quickly, I noticed that something had changed over the summer.

No, this is not like a classic coming of age sitcom where I was surprised by the arrival of puberty and… well, boobs. I had been there, done that. And, come to terms with it. All of it.

I was in eighth grade now, the top of the school and surely had things figured out. No more feeling one step behind the older, cooler girls. Now, I was one of them.

Except, as my classmates changed into their own gym class uniforms, I noticed their bras. Self aware enough to not stare and most certainly not ask, I hugged my right shoulder into me and felt the thin, adjustable strap of my own bra. It was new and made me feel grown up in the junior section of Macy’s, especially after I relegated anything with a racer back and thick straps to sports only.

But, somewhere over the summer my peers had taken “grown up” to the next level.

They were in the types of bras my mom and older women at the rec center wore. They were the kind of bras in the Victoria’s Secret catalog that sometimes came to our house. They were the kind with clasps on the back and, words I would later learn to be, “cups” and “underwire.” They had smooth, silky fabrics, embellished with sophisticated florals and one girl was even in a skin tone color. At thirteen, nothing said, “I am a grown woman” like a flesh toned bra.

I thought of the white strip of fabric under my shirt and the bras in my dresser at home. Cotton, strictly white and each had to be pulled over my head.

I wondered, “Are we really here? Are we really this grown up? How did this happen?”

I hugged my arms over my chest, feeling so behind everyone else once again, and sighed under my breath, “And, how come I was the last to know?”

 ***

I watched my friend run her fingers over her forehead and another rub her index finger up and down between her eyebrows. Chatter about “elevens” and “prevention” flowed as easily as the wine on our annual “Girls Weekend.” Seated around the kitchen island loaded with snacks, my oldest friends began regaling us with their recent dabbles with botox. They gushed about the experience and results, shrugging their shoulders when asked about any pain. Quiet, with nothing to contribute and feeling the all too familiar shame of “missing the memo,” my own hands began to run along the curve of my forehead, softly tracing a zig-zag from my eyebrows to hairline.

On a trip to the restroom, through a bit of a cabernet haze, I squinted in front of the mirror. Leaning across the sink, I examined my face just inches from the glass. I pushed my temples back and I raised my eyebrows up and then down and up again.

I did the same thing in the car the next week. Driving the kids to school, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Eyebrows up and down. My toddler watched me with his head tilted. I shifted my gaze from him back to me and watched the starbursts at the corner of my eyes deepen and the lines across my forehead dance.

At my annual appointment with my beloved dermatologist I inquired about these “wrinkles” of mine. She is so dear to me because she is about my age— something I have found key to avoiding shame at full body checks. She gets the need we all had for the perfect tan from 2004-2008 and doesn’t bring any judgement to the vain, yet reckless, habits of my youth. 

She rattled off a few thoughts. Retinols, creams and the like. Then she asked, “You are thirty … two, right?”

I nod.

“Really, the best thing is Botox.” Just like that. Easy, breezy Botox.

She must have seen the surprised look on my face. Because, sans Botox, it reads like a book.

“It’s great,” she gushed. “And, so easy. I have been giving it to myself for years!”

Just like that I am back in the locker room and back in that kitchen. I was the last to know. Always one step behind.

 ***

I decide to bring the idea up to my husband. I am prepared with:

1. The ringing endorsement from my dermatologist. A medical professional!

2. The now growing list of friends who have created an injections habit. See! It’s subtle. You never even knew!

Adam, a man who tolerates my penchant for the superficial (Think: Bravo and all things celebrity) and never questions my somewhat expensive haircut (and color) every six weeks, objects immediately.

I push to understand.

“Why?,” I ask, thinking it is about money. At about $300 a session, it’s a little more steep than my cut and color.

He stresses it’s not about the money.

“So what is it? Why do you care?,” I push, prepared for Number 3 in my argument: Age will make me look haggard and him distinguished. How is that fair?

He sighs with a touch of frustration, but also tenderness and says, “I don’t know. I just thought we would grow old together.”

 ***

“I just want someone to have fun and laugh with.”

Smiling, I flipped up the keyboard on my phone to respond to the text.

For the first time, being the blind date to a fraternity dance had not been terrible. In fact, it was great. Really great.

Because, never had a guy been so clear.

By then, I was a senior in college. I was at the top of the school and I surely had it figured out. I was a pro at all the games. I knew how to hide my feelings and the things I loved in order to seem cool. I concealed my love of Taylor Swift and preferences to wine versus beer to not be “girly,” “high maintenance,” or “too much.” I dulled myself to not even react when I didn’t get the leadership role or the guy didn’t call, even though both really hurt. I didn’t let anyone see my worry about the future or how hard I worked to get a cool, worthy job.

But, Adam didn’t hide a thing and he made me feel like I didn’t have to either. He told me he really liked me a few weeks later over dinner where I ordered chardonnay.

He smiled as he cranked up the stereo in his big pick-up truck and we belted out “Love Story” at the top of our lungs.

Days before graduation, his older sister published a column about him in the local paper. A staff writer, she shared the experience of watching her brother grow up before her eyes as he led one of the university’s largest spring events. She told readers about all the accolades he was leaving Purdue with and how proud she was. After reading the article, Adam looked up at me and said, “I wish she had added a line about you.”

He didn’t want me behind him, even when his spotlight was so well deserved. He wanted me right beside him.

***

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and go on about the unfairness that is aging as a woman. First, because that eye-roll would certainly cause more damage; but also because while a little cheesy, what Adam had said made me think.

Many people were on the fence about our marriage. They told us to wait, that at 24, we were too young

But I thought I had it figured out. I had a great job, I paid my bills and rent. I had a world view thanks to travel, style thanks to Pinterest and I was getting married. Finally, I might even be one step ahead.

However, just days before our wedding, I received notice that the funding for my position had been cut and, along with my peers, I was without a job. I stressed and cried and worried, but Adam never wavered through the long, lonely six unemployed months. He never made me feel behind him, even when he was paying the bills. He never asked me to hide on the days I was so down and hard to love.

Now, at 33, marriage at 24 does seem young. But also, I can’t see it playing out any other way.

Adam knew what he wanted right from that first date. He wanted someone to laugh with and he wanted me to be that someone. Yes, we were young; but, because we stepped off that campus alongside one another, we’ve grown up together.

But growing up—even, being married, a homeowner, a parent, or in my thirties, doesn’t mean I’ll have it all figured out.

Even my forever thoughts on Botox are not figured out.

But, at least for now, if the crinkles and wrinkles are the price of admission to the next part of our lives where we bring our children to early adulthood and we grow old together, I will happily pay it.

The lines on my face are proof of the challenges we worked out together, the sunshine we smiled in, the times we thought really hard and all the big laughs we shared right beside one another.

Exactly what the man who loves me just as I am knew he wanted all along. And, if I get really honest and try not to play it so cool, it’s all I wanted, too.

Why would I hide that and fall behind him now?

Guest essay written by Claire Trost. Claire is a writer in Indiana and owns a sustainable farm called Bent Arrow Acres with her husband and two small children. Her words on food, love, and life have been featured in Today Parents, Cherry Bombe Magazine, Edible Indy and her own personal blog, Bloom. Claire is in edits of her first manuscript and plans to self publish this fall.