Fix Me.

Woman wearing bandage and lipstick

 Fix Me

By: Erica Jacobs

I am stunningly embarrassed, resentful of my female community.

There. I said it.

Every nip, every tuck, every lift

feels like a dagger in my gut.

I know in my heart that a wrinkled face

tells a far superior story

to one filled with Botox.

It has nothing to do with wrinkles,

lumpy abdomens,

small breasts.

It’s not about a fountain of youth,

a clock turned back,

being ageless,

becoming sexy.

Your stretch marks,

bulky nose,

gravity-stricken face,

are of no relation,

to a bigger picture —

the soul of our existence.

You see,

In dementia, your memory will start to fade.

Even people you love most

will become strangers.

You will constantly question

who you are, who you were.

Some things just cannot be operated on.

Remember that while you ache to look and feel

as you did when you were young,

you may end up back in diapers

There is no plastic surgery to spare you that chapter.

For the record,

there is nothing enlightened

about being a lifted,



wrinkleless elderly woman.

It doesn’t matter how many times

you go under a knife.

Age is represented in your eyes,

your movements,

your thoughts,

your values,

and in the way you love.

None of which can be cut

or filled,

or sucked away in a sterile tube.

You are not a machine.

You do not need to be fixed.

Your body tells brilliant stories,

sings beautiful songs,

soothes itself without having to try.

Your body is a perfect operation all on its own.