I Feel your Pain Dorian Gray

Who says girls have the monopoly on poor self images?

Granted, they are inundated with an overwhelming amount of mass media imagery encouraging them to conform to a certain standard of beauty, and I could not conceive of being put under that microscope. Men can get away with so much more when it comes to acceptable images of weight and good looks.

A few weeks ago, I viewed a classic horror film from the 40s based on a classic Oscar Wilde story, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” It wasn’t the first time I watched the film, but it had been quite some time (perhaps as long as 15 years).

Seeing the film now, at my age, resonated in a way it never had previously. Granted, I’m only 38, but the image I have in my mind of myself is one from at least 10-12 years ago.

In the film, as in the novel, Dorian Gray wishes for nothing less than permanent beauty. A portrait of him, painted in the prime of his youth, gains magical properties when he makes this wish – it ages in his place. With each heinous act he commits, the portrait becomes uglier, putting a literal face on his moral disintegration.

Many times in the last few years I wished I had a magical portrait. Of course I’m not going around killing people, as Mr. Gray did, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror (which I try to avoid) I see who I am now, not the person I wish I was, physically.

I have no one but myself to blame for issues such as weight gain, but it still doesn’t soften the blow when you get your new driver’s license photo and the person you see is virtually unrecognizable.

I used to love taking pictures – I did so incessantly, and I have photo albums stocked to the gills from the ages of about 18-30. After that, I was often only photographed at some kind of special occasion. I just did not want to see myself.

I remember Billy Crystal describing the aging process in the film “City Slickers,” to his child’s “Bring Your Dad to School Day.” He noted that in your forties, “You’ll have an operation. The doctors will call it a procedure, but it’s an operation.” Have I had a procedure yet? Check.

That’s another thing that totally scares the hell out of me, beyond the issues of vanity I’ve just described. I’ve started down the road of popping pills for issues like cholesterol, triglycerides, and am anticipating blood pressure in the very near future.

My diet has been a horror show from Day One – no fruits, no veggies, no salad, etc, and a love affair with soda that will not be denied. A few years ago, I dropped about 20 pounds doing nothing but eliminating soda so I know how detrimental it is. I promptly gained it all back.

I’m fully cognizant of what needs to be done, but I’m good at making excuses for why I can’t eke out the time to make the good things happen, like working two jobs, going for my master’s, keeping up with family responsibilities. Then my doctor tells me he hits the treadmill every night at 11, and gets up at like, five. Damn him!

It’s only in the last few years I’ve become fully cognizant of the aging process, both mine and that of my parents. I remember vividly them at my age (they were 25 when I was born so the age disparity isn’t huge). I guess I’m just finding it difficult to comprehend them as senior citizens and me as middle aged.

As I’ve said before, mentally, I feel like I’m still around 25. Marriage and increased responsibility have not pushed me over the edge into a mindset that is age appropriate (I know, scary). It’s not as though I haven’t done the things that represent adulthood, such as getting married, buying real estate (several times over), etc.

I suppose that having a child would probably do it, but neither I nor my wife want any part of that (no offense to the 99.5% of the world that are parents!) I can still indulge my childish passions, hobbies, obsessions, what have you, and that really means a lot to me. Selfish? Maybe, but the human race doesn’t need me to endure.

Amazing how I can transition from poor self image to a refusal to grow up so effortlessly, eh?

My point? Getting old sucks, and I haven’t even scratched the surface! My wife is under orders not to host a 40th birthday party for me under pain of death (she held a lovely 30th for me – I didn’t mind 30).

Recently, my Dad told me the only age that ever bothered him was 40, not 50 or 60, so I take solace in that. One might glean that I’m in the throes of a mid-life crisis, and to them I’d say I really doubt it. I’m just at an age now where I’m noticing my prior invulnerability slipping away, by virtue of my outward appearance and problems with the plumbing. It could be much, much worse – I’m pretty grateful for what I do have.

I still want that magic painting though.