Deb: I have noticed of late that my body, not just content with breaking down, has taken upon itself to set up road signs to warn the other humans of my slow but steady deterioration. These signs will illuminate to any keen observer or passerby that things are not all they should be in the body department.
Clearly my body was bored and looking for a new challenge after ridding me of all that pesky pubic hair I didn’t need. After letting that success go to its head, my body has been on a bloody rampage. Well, not technically, as it took care of that problem maaaaaaaany years ago.
I don’t have time in just one blog-post to mention all of my body’s accomplishments, but I’d like to give a shout-out to some of its more recent and subtle work. Yes, there are things we all expect in the aging process, but I’d like to just spotlight some of the unexpected treats my body pulled out of its bag of tricks.
First of all, the big honkin’ liver spot on my chin was both a surprise and shock at the tender age of 56. Not content to rest on its laurels after the stellar job it did with the liver spot tats on my hands, my body felt it was time to land one right on my face. Yes, of course, it could have chosen my stomach, buttocks, or back, but where would be the fun in that? Who the hell’s going to see it in any of those hidden places? Slapping it right on my kisser is just the kind of blindsiding I have come to except from my fleshy nemesis.
But the most recent and by far the toughest blow, was the appearance of a little grouping of wrinkles that have formed an unholy alliance right above my breasts. Right smack dab in the middle of my décolleté. Just in case anyone might ever be thinking, “Gee, not a bad rack for a middle-aged gal”, their attention would be quickly stolen by the scary wrinkly sign that says, “I’d turn back if I were you!!!”
My body is telling me in its own diabolical way that despite my best efforts I am fighting a losing battle. I have long since resigned myself that a cocktail dress now includes sleeves. I even embrace “Spanx” on occasion. And the legs are hanging in, if you don’t count the cellulite.
But I really thought I could count on the cleavage. I knew that no matter how covered the back and the arms were, I could still trot out the ladies on a snowy Tuesday night and impress.
And yes, I know you’re thinking that I should be grateful for a healthy body and I am ... I really am ... bla bla bladity bla.
But for Fuck’s sake!
Barbara: Aw, geez, Deb. I totally thought the décolleté was a sacred, hang-in-to-the-end body part. Not that mine was ever my calling card. But ah well. I, like you, am trying to make peace with the inexorable march of time (if you call these kinds of despondent rants “making peace”).
Me? After finally FINALLY accepting my baby-fine straight hair, it steps up and offers me a strip of gray not in the back or even on the sides, but right on the top of my head down the middle (I think they call that The Skunk). My pretty good facial skin is now sprouting thick black hairs in the middle of what can only be called (shudders self-consciously) “moles”. Always had cellulite, but now it’s every-frickin’-where. Maybe it thinks I like it. Poor sad delusional cellulite.
I know, I know: “will make peace”, “will make peace”, “will not resort to drastic measures.” “It’s natural and normal and the new me”. Until the next degenerations come along to become the new me.
All I can say is: Buyer Beware.