"A good face, they say, is a letter of recommendation."
This face you got,
This here phizzog you carry around,
You never picked it out for yourself,
at all, at all--did you?
This here phizzog--somebody handed it
to you--am I right?
Somebody said,"Here's yours, now go see
what you can do with it."
Somebody slipped it to you and it was like
a package marked:
"No goods exchanged after being taken away"--
This face you got.
It’s taken me 53 years to settle into this phizzog of mine. No, I certainly did not pick it out for myself. People describe their faces as a road map. While the road map created on this face over time certainly does not reflect the trip I early on envisioned for me, I like to think that the mileage from one place to another has allowed for tourist attractions and detours of historical interest.
I’ve never met a birthday yet that has caused me angst. If anything, I’ve relished becoming more comfortable in my own skin as I’ve aged. I can already see that "if I had some work done,” I could certainly look better, but I really don’t want to forget the journey I’ve taken and the things I’ve seen. They’ve marked me visibly and emotionally over time, and left traces of a life that grows richer daily.
Shakespeare wrote that “With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.” If Willy the Shake could feel that way, then why should I quibble with that?