In less than two years I’ll be 50 years old. I used to think 50 was old. No wait, that’s not right. I used to think 40 was old and 50 was really, really old. Now I think 50 is young and 40 is really, really young. It doesn’t really matter what I think because either way I look at it, one thing is for sure. The strangest things are happening to me.
For example, what’s with all the flabby, sagging, redundant skin? I’m not talking wrinkles. I can handle wrinkles. I’m talking flabby, sagging, redundant skin. Oh quit your what’s-she-talking-about attitude and wipe that innocent look off your face, as if you don’t have flabby, sagging, redundant skin too. And yes, I did mean flabby, sagging and redundant. Look it up if you’re still confused. What do I look like a walking dictionary, for goodness sake? Take, for instance, my neck. Lately, there’s more skin on my neck than I need, than I’ll ever need for that matter (redundant, got it now?). In fact, if suddenly I were to turn into a giraffe over night, I’d still have some neck skin to spare. The same thing is happening with my eyelids. I put on some eye shadow the other day…again, wipe that shocked look off your face and close your mouth…I do wear make up every now and again when the mood strikes me. Anyway, I was applying this powder eye shadow, going for, you know, the “smoky eye,” which is the “in” thing for us brown-eyed girls these days. Every time I stroked the applicator brush across my eyelid, I seemed to drag two or three flabby skin folds with me. I couldn’t believe it. So I did it a few more times, and yep, the skin just kept sliding back and forth over my eyeball. If that’s not bad enough, my eyelids got droopier and droopier with each brush stroke. By the time I was done the skin was so droopy I couldn’t even find my eyelashes to apply mascara.
Since we’re talking about eyelashes, let’s talk about hair in general. Without warning I’ve got less hair in places where I want more and more hair in places where I want less. Not to mention grey hair in places I where I don’t care to mention. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Okay, maybe the less hair part isn’t all that bad. I don’t mind needing to shave my legs less often. It’s actually liberating, but I miss my eyelashes. I suppose I could be like Brooke Shields and use that Latisse stuff. It is the first FDA approved prescription that induces eyelash growth. The things people think of these days. I mean, seriously. Cure for cancer? Nah…let’s invent a drug that makes your eyelashes grow! Yippee! Anyway as with most wonder drugs, this one carries the potential for negative side effects, one of which clearly causes users to dance weird. Come on. Surely I’m not the only person to have seen that Latisse commercial with Brooke Shields, right? Brooke is dancing around like she’s the next Dancing with the Stars cast member, batting her long, luscious Latissse-lashes at her dance partner without so much as a hint of grace, rhythm or as they say, “musicality.” As much as I miss my eyelashes, I just can’t jeopardize my shot at that disco ball trophy, so Latisse is out for me. Truly, though, the more pressing matter to address is this business of more hair in places where I want less of it. I’m not going to get into too much detail, but let me tell you about this one, errant hair that sprouts from my weenus. Oh get your mind out of the gutter. The weenus is the loose skin that covers the very end of your elbow. Again, I haven’t got time for this. Look it up if you don’t believe me. Where was I? Oh yeah, I have this single, miscreant hair, if you will, growing smack in the middle of my right weenus. No matter how often I pluck it out, it sprouts right back the next day. To make matters worse, it’s not blonde and fine in texture like the other hairs on my forearms. No, no. This thing is black and coarse and wiry, like the kind of hair you find in other places and I’m not going to say where, but it rhymes with cubic.
The strangest things are happening to me and I’m afraid I can’t stop them. I never anticipated that certain of my body parts would so stubbornly assert themselves against my will. These days my breasts prefer my back to my front and my buttocks prefer behind my knees to my thighs. It’s as if they awoke one day and quite abruptly decided they needed a change of scenery and by the way, no amount of coaxing on my part has gotten them to agree to move back where they belong. Believe me. I’ve tried. The strangest things are happening to me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m still me. In less than two years I’ll be 50 years old, and still, I will be me, except perhaps for one small change. I used to think 50 was young, but the more I think about it, I have to say 50 is really, really young. That, my friend, is a change I’m willing to accept.
Till tomorrow…Good night. Sleep tight.