The Matron recently received an email from the husband of one of her readers and friends, thanking the Matron, because after 22 unconcerned and carefree years, his wife is now checking the house for rabid bats. And making him, help, too.
Since she has the power to pass on Behavioral Quirks, here's another for you! She's generous like this, that Matron.
Not that she's done the following.
But it IS possible to torture yourself by pulling the baggy aging skin underneath your eyes, taut, so you look like you're thirty again. And to compare the saggy baggy look you're currently sporting to the surgically possible tucked and tight face.
It IS (theoretically not that she has, is) possible to do this for a good hour instead of grading student essays, contemplating the hard cold fact that on Wednesday, you became officially closer to 50 than to 40 for the first time.
Oh my GOD. Did she just write that!!! Fifty. 50. 5. 0.
Just four more years before she falls over that bridge, officially making reality more surreal than rabid bats!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
NoBloPoMoPhoBia. Two more days to go. . . . .
11 comments:
No--no one looks better with that frozen, tight look. No one!
Yup, 50 freaks me out also. There's no going back...
Fifty is so much easier than 30. Really. Because nobody dares mess with a woman with hot flashes.
I'm heading toward 46 myself in just 5 months, and I gotta admit, I feel a whole hell of alot better mentally than I did in my 20s and 30s. Way to much self doubt. Even with the wrinkles, I don't second guess myself so much.
Not that you'd ever try this, but what if someone--not you--avoided grading essays by not only stretching the undereye skin but also taping it back? And maybe tautening that jaw line with more tape (duct or packing works) yanking up under the ears?
ACK! STOP WRECKING THOSE PERFECTLY GOOD WRINKLES!!!! (first of all, if you're pulling it taut, aren't you stretching it MORE??)
Second of all, ladies, we've EARNED these wrinkles. They are marks of character. They are the road maps we've lived. Our saggy breasts are badges of honour--we have given life, and nursed it.
Ten and a half years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. When I hit 30, I threw the biggest party my apartment could hold, because five years previously I didn't know I was going to get to have thirty candles on a cake, ever. Every wrinkle I get now (yes, even those disturbing ones that have started to appear occasionally on my decolletage--what's up with that??), and every grey hair (and ladies, I have a skunk stripe that rivals Reba's and gaining every day) I look at and think that there was a chance I wouldn't live to see it.
But I did. You can tape, and tuck, and stretch, and prune all you want. But I am embracing every sag, every pooch and wrinkle and pock and probably one day god forbid every liver spot. So I got shriveled and grey and had skin so dry you could roll a pie crust on it. All that means to me is that I got to live long enough to see it happen.
This does not, however, mean I'm going to stop being self-conscious about the size of my ass. That is not part of the deal.
Ah, Firecat. Thank you!
Right on, Firecat!
I never minded getting older until I hit 58. For some reason, that number signaled OLD. But it is still way better than the alternative, as Firecat so eloquently pointed out.
I had the same feeling as I approached 40.....now 41 looms.
I try to study my sags, bags and wrinkles as little as possible:)
No worries - you look marvelous!
Well said firecat!!
I was at the PostSecret.com website and there was a postcard on there recently that read, "I can't wait until I'm old and wrinkly with laugh lines. That way everyone will know how happy you've made me." I thought that was a cool way of looking at aging.
(Shhhhhhh....I just hit 48)
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