Chickens don’t wrinkle

On aging, vanity, and the world’s oldest chicken

Since my bantam hen, Peanut, was awarded the Guinness record for World’s Oldest Living Chicken this past spring, we have attracted a LOT of attention.

Peanut is a bit of a miracle chicken, since I had to hatch her myself. I didn’t sit on her egg for three weeks; her real mom did that. But when the other chicks hatched, her mom abandoned her egg, and I had to peel her out of it when she called for help, just as I was about to pitch it into our pond.

And now she’s the oldest chicken alive.

It makes for a great story, one of survival, hope, help, and joy. A story much needed these days, apparently, as it seems to have resonated far and wide. I wrote a picture book about her and it has been incredibly well received.

We’ve been on television, radio, social media, newspapers, and magazines. We’ve been interviewed by telephone, zoom, and in person. We’ve been photographed, photographed, photographed.

I know I’m getting older. I was nearly forty when I finally met a man who could stand to live with me, and I with him, and that was over thirty years ago. We all have daily reminders of the passage of time. I don’t have children or grandchildren. But I have the world’s oldest chicken.

Peanut has aged gracefully. I have not.

Sure, she looks a little ruffled, and she falls over now and then. As mentioned on my NPR interview, so do I. But she hasn’t gained a lot of weight, or acquired triple chins. She doesn’t wrinkle, sag, or have under-eye bags.

I was never a raving beauty. But I wasn’t bad looking. Being terribly near-sighted, I’m fortunate that my image in the mirror is always soft-focus and forgiving. I’m not confronted by reality on a daily basis.

Enter high resolution photography.

I first noticed it after my high school class reunion this past summer. Seeing old friends, many for the first time in many years, was a bit jolting at first. Sure, I’ve let my hair go silver, my face is lined, and my shoulders stooped. But I didn’t expect it of the cheerleaders and the football players! Still, as we conversed, ate, drank, and even danced, the years melted away and their faces were beautiful to me.

Then the pictures began to appear on Facebook. The professional photographer’s images especially were particularly unflattering. She seemed to have zoomed in on everyone’s flaws. Most of us looked a hundred years old.

Maybe just because we have high powered cameras doesn’t mean we always have to use them. Should we be showing a little compassion? Could we use a little discretion?

With any luck at all, most of us will grow older. Having little or no vanity would be a huge advantage in the process. My mother could have cared less about her looks, and she aged beautifully, well into her nineties, but my father hated looking old. I now understand the scowl on his face when I approached with my camera, although he looked better than he thought, even in his eighties. And who knows, maybe I do, too.

But I can’t help wishing my face was covered in feathers.