or "I'm sorry waitress, I didn't order this"
When I turned 49 in January (Yes! 49!?! Me?!?) or 7 squared as I like to look at it, I laughed my ass off because I have the maturity of, like, a 12 year old boy. For once in my life, I was totally cool with my age, my looks, my body. I felt truly FABULOUS!
Then something awful happened over the past few months...
I suddenly look tired, saggy and in need of one of those "quick-fix" face lifts all the quacky dermo docs are hawking these days. Personally I think some vindictive troll swapped my mirror with a reverse Dorian Gray** model because some middle-aged, south-of-the-border, deluded cougar is staring back at me. And I can't get her to leave. Not even tossing the Kettel One Vodka out in the back yard will get her to budge from the sofa. And that's the good stuff!
Now I know I'm prone to flip flop between complete "I will conquer your world" confidence and utter insecurity capable of crippling my psyche and leaving me in an emotionally wrought fetal position, rocking back and forth in the back of my closet, clutching my blue blankee for solace.
But seriously. What the HELL is happening?
To my face? To my hands? To my...
Good God! What the EFF is that thing dangling between what used to be my smooth jaw line and the family of folds currently homesteading on my neck?!? It's like the elastic waistband of my youthful past life snapped overnight, and I can't quite fish it back out through the holes in order to stitch it tightly back together. And now it keeps slipping down my back side, and it's just no good for anything.
You know you're of a "certain age" (love that phrase, don't we ladies? NOT! An utterance worthy of a justified stabbing.) when you put your freshly washed, dripping hands under one of those new-fangled Turbo dryers in the ladies room... and the velocity of the air produces rippling waves on your man-mitts high enough for a mini surfer dude to hang ten into shore.
I swear to God my flesh pools over the ends of my palms like a pocket watch in a Dali painting, or that hideous upper-arm flap that continues to wave Buh-bye looong after you've quieted your limb.
I mean, come on. That ain't right.
Not to mention gross. So don't mention it. I'm not kidding. Don't go there. Really.
So where does this whole, painful realization leave me? I don't know. I'm not going to get a face lift yet. Everyone knows they only last 10 years. Pffft! Pa-lease. I guess I'll have to drink on it. Er...think on it.
Nah...I was right the first time. After a couple of super-sized refills I won't ca... what was the issue again?
**yes. I realize this makes no sense since the portrait of Dorian Gray aged while his actual flesh and blood being did not. It just sounded good to me for some reason. Don't judge me. Shut up. I'm pre-menopausal. I could injure you.