Well, I have reading glasses. Clearly the apocalypse can’t be far off.
Two weeks from tomorrow, I will turn 46 years old. By the time my mother was my age, three of her four children had graduated from college. My oldest is in second grade. I’ll qualify for AARP discounts by the time she graduates from college. If she goes to college. Hot Firefighter Husband keeps telling her college is optional, so she’s mulling a future as a rock star.
I don’t particularly feel old. But I’ve become, to my dismay, a little obsessed about looking old. I’ve started thinking about Botox again – that is, I’ve again started thinking about it. I’ve never had it. I probably wouldn’t tell you if I had, though.
I also have started worrying about my weight again because I think being thinner might make me look younger. I don’t want to lose a lot of weight, just 10 pounds or so. Everybody wants to lose 10 pounds or so, right?
Husband does not support this goal. Firstly, he thinks reducing my food intake will make me cranky. Crankier, I should say. He is not in favor of additional crank in the house.
Secondly, he claims that he likes my current weight. “If you lose 10 pounds, you’ll have smaller boobs and a smaller ass,” he said.
“My ass could stand to be smaller. I think I’ll look better.”
“Look better to who?”
I was stumped. But the truth came out. “To other women, I guess. To people at the gym.”
“So let me get this straight. You want to do something that will make you less attractive to your husband, but more attractive to women you don’t care about?” I should point out here that I am not a lesbian.
“Yes,” I said. “I can see how stupid that sounds.” Still, it’s something to work toward.
This is definitely where I could delve into a deep analysis of why women are so hard on themselves, and why society at large fails to recognize the outer beauty of women over the age of 40.
Instead I’m going to focus on how vain I am.
I’m not proud of this. At least twice a day I remind myself that a huge majority of women in the world would love to have my problems. Hmm, would I rather worry about whether my child is going to die of malaria today or those little crow’s feet around my eyes?
I don’t know what all this means, other than I should appreciate the luxury of worrying about my crow’s feet. Obviously I’m neither the first nor the last woman to worry about wrinkles and flab. I guess it means I’m normal. It’s just that normal, like old, is something else I never thought I’d be.
