I woke up the other day with horizontal indentations across my forehead. I stood at the mirror and tried to rub them out. My husband was supportive.
“Dear, you’re old. They’re laugh lines. You’re happy, but you’re old.”
“I’m not happy now. And you’re bald.”
What the fuck? Did I just get old? And, I moisturize. My most recent purchase was a serum with regenerative strains of micro-algae. And, I put that shit on my face. It was supposed to firm and lift. For $98, I should have tighter skin and perkier breasts. But no, I have bowling alley gutters above my eyebrows and my boobs are at my knees.
Never mind that I have always looked young for my age. I’m lucky, blah blah, blah. Tell that to someone who isn’t wearing so many spandex undergarments she could be Richard Simmons’ gal Friday. It’s fine; I can breathe when I sleep.
Then there’s forgetting and losing things. Yes, it’s little things, but it’s crazy-making. Yesterday, I spent ten frantic minutes searching for my phone, my sons waiting with full backpacks, lunchboxes, and punching each other–just because.
“Um, Mom, your phone is in your hand.”
“Get in the car.”
“Mom, I think you’re getting old.”
“Get in the trunk.”
And don’t get me started on grey hair. I’ve been a frequent dyer for years. As an Italian/Ukrainian brunette, my first grey came early. That sucker was front and center, wiry and strong-willed. I started with semi-annual colorings but as the years progressed, so did their frequency. My stylist is now live-in. He has the guest bedroom and his own Christmas stocking; it’s easier that way. And that’s just the hair on my head. Yes, ladies, the carpet and the drapes match. Keep an eye on the carpet. You do not want your husband or partner to be the archaeologist on that dig.
Eventually, you’ll win the Triple Crown. Carpet, drapes, and chin, which I like to call “the sofa.” Expect billy goat hairs to sprout from your sofa with Jack-in-the-Beanstalk like fervor. My first was a powerful sucker that I showed to my husband, just to gross him out. It worked. “If you ever want sex again, don’t show me that.”
And, then there was sex. I remember being a randy little acrobat in my 20s and 30s. Then I had kids, and developed a thyroid disorder, and went through early-onset menopause. If you don’t know what that does to your sex drive, Google it. You’ll never Google again. Also, there are dryness issues. Yes, you can make a pinched I-just-ate-a-lemon-face. But, your lady bits will not be the glorious fountain of, well the fountain, they once were. You only get so much and you use it up. There are creams and ointments and work-arounds, but that’s the thing, sex becomes less spontaneous and more of a process. You have to laugh about it, or take your dried-up lady bits and play alone, which could take for-fucking-ever, by the way. So, budget more time, lighten up and stock up on the lube (I find extra strength is best). You can still have fun, but no swinging from the chandeliers. You’ll hurt your back; you’re way too old for that shit.
Plus, you’ve gained weight. OK, I’ve gained weight. What if we rip the chandelier out of the ceiling? How will we explain that to the kids? Some women, I like to call them bitches, don’t gain weight as they age. The rest of us mortals, we’re fucking mortal! Our bodies change. That metabolism you used to have? It is gone. So, either say goodbye to wine and dessert or learn to love that extra little bit of you. That’s my plan. I will not go out drinking a kale smoothie. Not going to happen. I earned my Malbec and chocolate cake. I have lived half a century. I made two people, who, despite everything they have put me through, are still alive. Pour me a glass of wine, damn it, and pass the cake. And, make it a corner piece.