A long time ago, when I was first married, I had 32 inch long hair. It was light brown , a little reddish with some blond streaks in there. The only thing it wasn't was black.
I liked my hair but it was very thick and heavy. I could be dragged by my ponytail without it hurting hardly at all. It took forever to dry when you washed it. Forget blow drying it, it took way too long. Mostly I kept it in a braid that started at the top of my head and ran down to the middle of my back. I don't know why I kept growing it. To see where it would go, I guess. My husband said it was a rite of passage in our house to pull my freakishly long hair from places that it shouldn't be. When I was pregnant and my hair went through a phase of thinning as hormones are wont to cause, I would walk through our house and find a wad of my very long hair wrapped around my feet.
Long hair wasn't really stylish yet. I identified myself with my hair. It probably lost me acting work. I wanted it to go away but was too stubborn to do anything about it. So it was sort of a relief to have brain surgery.
They shaved a huge piece of my hair along the right side of my head in the MRI room the day before surgery in preparation of one last look see and to set the "carve here" stickers with dots marking the surgeon's pattern of attack. It looked like a half-ass-ed demented mohawk. I said, "Hey, aren't you going to take off the rest?" The surgeon's p.a. said that a lot of people only wanted part off it removed so they could grow less back. I told him that three feet of hair will take awhile to catch up with so keeping the rest may not be a great idea.
So while he shaved away the rest, I watched years of my thick hair fall to the ground and felt my head get lighter and lighter. I walked around Park Slope with my new shining head with its peculiar ornamentation feeling a little beautiful even, despite the fact that someone was going to mar it permanently the next day. I went out for dinner...possibly my last supper in my mind....with my friends and then, when my husband came over from Sunset Park with our big old station wagon to pick me up, he arrived bald. In solidarity he shaved his lovely thick dark hair too. We got in our boat of a car with our little girl in the back seat, two shining beautiful best friends driving off to get ready for the scary future together, as bald as two cue balls.
Even now, all these years later, when I think of this man doing this for me, I remember what a tremendous selfless act that was, think of all of the trials life has put us through together and survived and how much I love him. How could you not?
Afterward, when the surgery was past and the staples were taken out of the scar that went from the top of my right forehead to behind my ear, I bleached the short growth so that the bright red line didn't pop out as much. It is long again, now unnaturally white. I wish that I could just let it go back to my real color but I am afraid almost a decade after surgery, just what that real color may be. And once again, I am enslaved to my hair, bleaching it whenever the roots show themselves, getting longer and longer until I must stop it from going further. I'd shave it for him, I think. I'd do it for him too. Still. You never know where your hair is going to take you.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Family Values
I hate what the right wing conservative movement did to the term "Family Values." I also used to be sceptical about the whole concept of what exactly identifies a family value. As we get closer to Christmas, not knowing what next year brings, I get it more. And I think the definition is not nearly as pompous as the aforementioned group has deemed correct.
My life has always been peppered with fear. Fear of loss of my family that I grew up with, fear of never being able to go home to see my mom and dad, fear of losing my family now. Well, you know what? 2/3's of those fears have come to fruition. If my family isn't dead entirely, a large percentage of them are and the home that I would go to on the holidays is gone. I cannot control everything in my future, but I can grab onto it with both hands now and hold the people most dear to me, the family...Husband, Wife and Child that we created voluntarily and organically through our marriage and love..... and make it the best damned holiday that we ever had.
We have our tree. We plan our meal. We forget about expenses and buy all of the things that we can to make our child's happiness come to a joyous peak on Christmas morning while she is still trying to keep the idea of Santa alive as long as she can despite, I suspect, her knowledge of the actual facts. We share egg nog in various alcohol/non-alcohol versions. We hold hands. We light the decorations in sparkling all over the living room. We will bake cookies and cook ham and have Christmas morning Sunday bacon, inundating the child with sights and smells that she can carry with her into the future when maybe not all of the family is there, when maybe the presents aren't as good or the holiday starts out in a place that doesn't feel exactly like home.
With everything in life, it is best to value what is in front of us. It goes by so fast. People leave. Families fall to the wayside as different wants and needs surface. Now is the time when we can value what we have, our family that is here with us right this minute using the natural progression of the Christmas season to bolster it.
So, yeah, I believe in family values. Loving them while you have them, doing everything that you can to put them first and make them happy, valuing the joy of togetherness because it may not be here tomorrow. It could last until you die if you are very very lucky but you never know if this is the last day you have with them together and I hold onto that with my whole heart. Merry Christmas, the loves of my life, My Family. Let's make it the best one of our lives.
My life has always been peppered with fear. Fear of loss of my family that I grew up with, fear of never being able to go home to see my mom and dad, fear of losing my family now. Well, you know what? 2/3's of those fears have come to fruition. If my family isn't dead entirely, a large percentage of them are and the home that I would go to on the holidays is gone. I cannot control everything in my future, but I can grab onto it with both hands now and hold the people most dear to me, the family...Husband, Wife and Child that we created voluntarily and organically through our marriage and love..... and make it the best damned holiday that we ever had.
We have our tree. We plan our meal. We forget about expenses and buy all of the things that we can to make our child's happiness come to a joyous peak on Christmas morning while she is still trying to keep the idea of Santa alive as long as she can despite, I suspect, her knowledge of the actual facts. We share egg nog in various alcohol/non-alcohol versions. We hold hands. We light the decorations in sparkling all over the living room. We will bake cookies and cook ham and have Christmas morning Sunday bacon, inundating the child with sights and smells that she can carry with her into the future when maybe not all of the family is there, when maybe the presents aren't as good or the holiday starts out in a place that doesn't feel exactly like home.
With everything in life, it is best to value what is in front of us. It goes by so fast. People leave. Families fall to the wayside as different wants and needs surface. Now is the time when we can value what we have, our family that is here with us right this minute using the natural progression of the Christmas season to bolster it.
So, yeah, I believe in family values. Loving them while you have them, doing everything that you can to put them first and make them happy, valuing the joy of togetherness because it may not be here tomorrow. It could last until you die if you are very very lucky but you never know if this is the last day you have with them together and I hold onto that with my whole heart. Merry Christmas, the loves of my life, My Family. Let's make it the best one of our lives.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Parenthood Peace Treaty
My daughter was an extraordinary archer. We found out by accident, when our petite flower picked up my mother's 50 year old weapon and popped off a clean shot. Her tiny piano wire arms pulling a third of her body weight.
We brought her to a school that was tied to the JOAD program. That is short for Junior Olympic Archery Development. There was a kid in her school with a world record. His parents built an archery range through the middle of their house so he could shoot inside in the winter. Her coach had tutored Olympians. When he saw her, he begged us to keep her there for six years when she would be open to opportunities like that. She was that gifted. We would post her scores and pictures of her targets with the arrows sticking out of the center gold on Facebook that our friends and relatives would cheer on.
We don't have much money. Our families saw the passion that she had and did everything they could to support her for two years. They paid for classes, brought her equipment. Her first year, Santa gave her her very own bow so that she didn't have to rent it for school.
Every Saturday my husband and I would drive her 45 minutes to the school. We would tie it into our weekly Costco grocery shopping. One of us would sneak out and bring back coffee. We would buy her a snickers bar and, later, M&Ms from the store in the school so that we would get through to lunch. It was a family affair that went on for over a year, with the daughter our central focus, growing in ranks. Breaking over 200 and continuing to a much harder level.
Money knocked us out one summer. We were just not around long enough weekends to justify the full price we had to pay (usually in the fall we were pro-rated). When we finally returned, the daughter's body had hit a growth spurt, something very hard on an archer because the bones and the muscles grow at separate times. The coach fell ill and the teacher running the class didn't seem to do much more than run through the process. The daughter was in tears, feeling the pressure of, in her head, failure. Her score fell way below what would have been her normal growth rate. She grew sad and discouraged. When her coach returned, he tried his best to lift her enthusiasm back to where it had been but you could tell, she just felt like a failure even though no one else thought so.
The summer came around again. Our family once again couldn't justify the money. The daughter had lost the joy and the family lost our Saturdays together when we would wake up bitching that we had to drive together so far away every week. That we had made this commitment to each other and cheer on the child that eventually lost the joy in her gift, our family event.
We spoke to her about returning. We realize that it has to be her choice, that by forcing her it will kill the love for the sport entirely that she stepped into with such wonderful talent. You could tell that we were offering her the option to try fully expecting her to fold. And she didn't.
Today I take her back to the range, just to shoot for fun. The way it was before it became something that made her feel like a failure because her body gave out on her for a little while. Maybe even I will try it. I shouldn't. I can't afford it. But it may be worth it just to make her laugh and want to come back more.
I miss those awful cold mornings burning gas to go watch a child be brilliantly dangerous with a medieval weapon, running out to Dunks and sitting together on the metal chairs trying not to whoop when she hit the gold with her dad video taping the scores on his phone's camera, "And she shoot....ooh! A nine! Nice, Baby!" Maybe someday she will love it again. Maybe some day our family can pile into the car on a Saturday morning and stop at Costco on the way home. Either way, I hope this is a childhood memory of her family she will keep in her heart when she is older, touching her old bow fondly that I hope she will always keep near by, proud of her great talent that will always be there.
We brought her to a school that was tied to the JOAD program. That is short for Junior Olympic Archery Development. There was a kid in her school with a world record. His parents built an archery range through the middle of their house so he could shoot inside in the winter. Her coach had tutored Olympians. When he saw her, he begged us to keep her there for six years when she would be open to opportunities like that. She was that gifted. We would post her scores and pictures of her targets with the arrows sticking out of the center gold on Facebook that our friends and relatives would cheer on.
We don't have much money. Our families saw the passion that she had and did everything they could to support her for two years. They paid for classes, brought her equipment. Her first year, Santa gave her her very own bow so that she didn't have to rent it for school.
Every Saturday my husband and I would drive her 45 minutes to the school. We would tie it into our weekly Costco grocery shopping. One of us would sneak out and bring back coffee. We would buy her a snickers bar and, later, M&Ms from the store in the school so that we would get through to lunch. It was a family affair that went on for over a year, with the daughter our central focus, growing in ranks. Breaking over 200 and continuing to a much harder level.
Money knocked us out one summer. We were just not around long enough weekends to justify the full price we had to pay (usually in the fall we were pro-rated). When we finally returned, the daughter's body had hit a growth spurt, something very hard on an archer because the bones and the muscles grow at separate times. The coach fell ill and the teacher running the class didn't seem to do much more than run through the process. The daughter was in tears, feeling the pressure of, in her head, failure. Her score fell way below what would have been her normal growth rate. She grew sad and discouraged. When her coach returned, he tried his best to lift her enthusiasm back to where it had been but you could tell, she just felt like a failure even though no one else thought so.
The summer came around again. Our family once again couldn't justify the money. The daughter had lost the joy and the family lost our Saturdays together when we would wake up bitching that we had to drive together so far away every week. That we had made this commitment to each other and cheer on the child that eventually lost the joy in her gift, our family event.
We spoke to her about returning. We realize that it has to be her choice, that by forcing her it will kill the love for the sport entirely that she stepped into with such wonderful talent. You could tell that we were offering her the option to try fully expecting her to fold. And she didn't.
Today I take her back to the range, just to shoot for fun. The way it was before it became something that made her feel like a failure because her body gave out on her for a little while. Maybe even I will try it. I shouldn't. I can't afford it. But it may be worth it just to make her laugh and want to come back more.
I miss those awful cold mornings burning gas to go watch a child be brilliantly dangerous with a medieval weapon, running out to Dunks and sitting together on the metal chairs trying not to whoop when she hit the gold with her dad video taping the scores on his phone's camera, "And she shoot....ooh! A nine! Nice, Baby!" Maybe someday she will love it again. Maybe some day our family can pile into the car on a Saturday morning and stop at Costco on the way home. Either way, I hope this is a childhood memory of her family she will keep in her heart when she is older, touching her old bow fondly that I hope she will always keep near by, proud of her great talent that will always be there.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Year Of The Protestor
I went to a very small school when "The Prom".....a prom so fierce it had a "The" attached to it at all times.....was thrown by the Junior class. We only had one because the gymnasium could only take the distraction of so many activities sporadically in a school that had all classes Kindergarten through 12th grade using it. I was on the prom committee and I took my duty very very seriously.
The Prom Committee had two advisers. I could only remember one though because he is engraved in my head for eternity and here's why. The Prom Committee's duty was all encompassing. We chose the punch, we chose the decorations, we chose The Prom Band. In order to judge the proficiency of our The Prom Band candidates, they were played on a tape deck in the central school's main office into a microphone that aired into the classroom on the upstairs "not for elementary grade students" floor. The quality was wonky at best.
The adviser that I can remember was a gym teacher. A large man with a booming voice with mannerisms that inspired snickering and disrespect from most of the puberty ridden jackasses with homophobic tendencies in the school. They called him "Gay-o." It was awful and I felt bad about that but not bad enough to say anything and draw attention to myself. I had been picked on pretty fiercely myself in the past and things had finally turned around. The adviser was unaware of my sympathy and entirely aware of the disrespect. So when I was trying so so hard to hear The Next Prom Band Candidate and he continued to speak, I shushed. Not at him. Just....shushed.
But that is not what he heard. He heard, "Shut. Up." Or probably even, "Shut the fuck up." He stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, I hear over the loud speaker, "Jessica Curtis, please report to the principals office." And I wet myself a little.
I was terrified of being bad in school. This, ironically, coming from a kid who smoked cigarettes in the woods behind my house in the 5th grade. It's not that I never did bad things. I just didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful and a thug. Being seen as bad was a fear on phobic levels. This was my worst nightmare. I don't know what I did but whatever it was, I was innocent.
I spent three days in the principals office refusing detention. The adviser said that I was delinquent, snarky (or whatever it was we called it in the '80's), and intentionally attacked him. I cried. I denied. And I protested. I had never done such a thing in my life, whatever it was I was supposed to have done. I wasn't going to detention. It was wrong.
The second day into my protest, the principal tried to negotiate it into palatible terms, "Hey. It's only detention. It's not like its going on your permanent record. Just take it and get on with life." And I would respond, "But I didn't dooooooooo anyth-th-th-th---," insert hysterical weeping. The adviser argued. I cried.
On the third day, the principal acknowledged that I was one of the most stubborn human beings on the planet, that we were going to be in that office through summer break if it kept going that way and gave up.
It takes a lot of anger and fear for Annoyed to evolve into Protest. It has to become something so intolerable that you are willing to put yourself into a gravely uncomfortable situation. In my minor case, it was the achilles heel of being seen as something that I never in a million years would be. It was an injustice that I could not let slide.
The husband has informed me that Time magazine has named The Protestor as their person of the year for 2011. Interesting and wonderful to reward the brave. Bravo, Time Magazine! I love it. It is deserved.
Thousands and thousands of people around the planet hit that point this year, the point of intolerance. To give up their comfortable homes and lives for indefinite periods of time because they believed that their presence would make a difference when the joined others with similar ideals. Some died, suffered criminal abuse, lost their families . Some lived in tents in the middle of urban sprawl for months. Many were attacked by the people that were supposed be protecting them by law. And many many many changed their world and ours. Because they knew that if they stuck their heels in and committed to their beliefs, they could say that they lived their lives with integrity and did something instead of standing by helplessly, accepting the raw deal that was being given to them. Enough. Intolerant. Protest.
The Prom Committee had two advisers. I could only remember one though because he is engraved in my head for eternity and here's why. The Prom Committee's duty was all encompassing. We chose the punch, we chose the decorations, we chose The Prom Band. In order to judge the proficiency of our The Prom Band candidates, they were played on a tape deck in the central school's main office into a microphone that aired into the classroom on the upstairs "not for elementary grade students" floor. The quality was wonky at best.
The adviser that I can remember was a gym teacher. A large man with a booming voice with mannerisms that inspired snickering and disrespect from most of the puberty ridden jackasses with homophobic tendencies in the school. They called him "Gay-o." It was awful and I felt bad about that but not bad enough to say anything and draw attention to myself. I had been picked on pretty fiercely myself in the past and things had finally turned around. The adviser was unaware of my sympathy and entirely aware of the disrespect. So when I was trying so so hard to hear The Next Prom Band Candidate and he continued to speak, I shushed. Not at him. Just....shushed.
But that is not what he heard. He heard, "Shut. Up." Or probably even, "Shut the fuck up." He stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, I hear over the loud speaker, "Jessica Curtis, please report to the principals office." And I wet myself a little.
I was terrified of being bad in school. This, ironically, coming from a kid who smoked cigarettes in the woods behind my house in the 5th grade. It's not that I never did bad things. I just didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful and a thug. Being seen as bad was a fear on phobic levels. This was my worst nightmare. I don't know what I did but whatever it was, I was innocent.
 | |||
| Thug |
The second day into my protest, the principal tried to negotiate it into palatible terms, "Hey. It's only detention. It's not like its going on your permanent record. Just take it and get on with life." And I would respond, "But I didn't dooooooooo anyth-th-th-th---," insert hysterical weeping. The adviser argued. I cried.
On the third day, the principal acknowledged that I was one of the most stubborn human beings on the planet, that we were going to be in that office through summer break if it kept going that way and gave up.
It takes a lot of anger and fear for Annoyed to evolve into Protest. It has to become something so intolerable that you are willing to put yourself into a gravely uncomfortable situation. In my minor case, it was the achilles heel of being seen as something that I never in a million years would be. It was an injustice that I could not let slide.
The husband has informed me that Time magazine has named The Protestor as their person of the year for 2011. Interesting and wonderful to reward the brave. Bravo, Time Magazine! I love it. It is deserved.
Thousands and thousands of people around the planet hit that point this year, the point of intolerance. To give up their comfortable homes and lives for indefinite periods of time because they believed that their presence would make a difference when the joined others with similar ideals. Some died, suffered criminal abuse, lost their families . Some lived in tents in the middle of urban sprawl for months. Many were attacked by the people that were supposed be protecting them by law. And many many many changed their world and ours. Because they knew that if they stuck their heels in and committed to their beliefs, they could say that they lived their lives with integrity and did something instead of standing by helplessly, accepting the raw deal that was being given to them. Enough. Intolerant. Protest.
Shampoop
I hate certain scents. It's hard to tell if I am actually allergic to them or just hate them so much that they dry out my mouth and make it hard to breathe. Things like fabric softener and Mountain Fresh Scent in laundry detergent. If a person has really loaded it on, I can't be on the same side of the room with them. So, in lieu of risking a wheezy whiney wife and having to buy a 10 dollar bottle of laundry soap, the husband began to make our own. And, besides having to own a large pot to stir it in and a place to put it, it is fairly simple. And wicked inexpensive. It made us take a step back and begin to suspect that there was very little reason for the prices attached to these all natural green products beyond greed and we began to look for other things to make, leading us into the wild and woolly world of home made cleansing and body products.
Okay. Maybe not wild. Or woolly, really. But I live with a scientist. Figuring out percentages in ounces can be fun. I swear.
We have begun to put together different products to start a line of skin creams, body oils and soaps. I don't want to tell you how because when we build our Etsy empire to be followed by our mail order empire to be followed by our vendor table at street fair empire, I want you to NEED us. But the truth is, you really don't. The advantage we have over you is that we invested in the basics...which pay for themselves really quickly....and we have been experimenting with different varieties of smells and textures. Also, when it comes to soap, there is the issue of some math to be done to make the fat vs. lye balanced. But, between you and me and the wall, it takes balls to charge 5 bucks for a bar of soap if you knew how much a batch costs and how much you get in it. Unless there is money cooked into that fancy hippy soap, you are getting schtupped.
The laundry soap costs about three bucks a batch. All natural. Three ingredients. Cleans great. It looks a little weird, but so what.
I found a recipe for dishwashing detergent. Again under three bucks for a gallon of this stuff.
We also make our own mozzerella cheese. Super super easy. Renin, Citric acid, milk and some salt. Takes twenty minutes. If you screw it up, it is ricotta.
The husband makes his own beer and wine. Okay. THAT is a little more expensive because you have to have equipment, but, really, after all is said and done, he gets a lot of hootch that would cost way more in the store and he has say about the elements that goes into it.
In the long run, it is good to know the basic elements that make a product work just to know what you is rubbing into your skin or onto your dishes that you eat from. But people who normally will analyze their food products down to the cow the milk came from don't think twice about what is exactly in the soap you are dumping into the clothes you are wearing as long as it is biodegradable and "green."
What is it? Really? At least consider that if you look at the recipes for some of these things, you will know what you are actually paying for. Because you will be astonished at how often you are paying for packaging and profit and then a little teeny bit of ingredient. And maybe you might want to take a shot at making your own.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
PTSD Night Time.
I used to hide until I could pass out and wake up when it seemed brighter and less dangerous. Till the feet on the floorboards stomping loudly finally came to an end. Until the voices stopped accusing and name calling. Till it would pass and we would have a few days to embrace the false sense of security that lay like a week glass over the monsters that rumbled under our world. Every time in adulthood when the night came around, I loved the safety of the peace far away from the monsters. Every time it was rattled, I felt betrayed, especially when the brain couldn't process the thoughts the same way, waking up every day not knowing how to think anymore, what new survival tools existed to keep me going. The world looked different and the new brain made me even more askew than the odd earthquake seizures that shook the rug out from under us. Frustration of helplessness and absolute exhaustion compounded by his frustration of not mattering when it wasn't convenient for my brain to be able to handle the needs of anything beyond survival. All of the guilty monsters eating at me for not being good enough to feel too hard and remind me that they were always there, now eating at him every night too. So I would hide in the night. Like I did as a child. Shut it all out. All of the bad monsters. Until now when the closet got too full of other new nightmares to hide them.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ma Could Run Fast At 70....For Ma
My Ma is a physically remarkable person. I won't tell you how old she is because she thinks it is a horrible faux pas. Let's say she is way past 70 and doesn't look much older than that. It's a lucky genetic thing. Not everyone gets one of those.
Middle age is insulting. It does things to your body that you can't believe is happening to you. Like you were going to escape the same thing that has happened to every human being luck enough to survive such a thing. Aging, you bastard!
Sure, there are things that you can do no matter what your genetic code that is delivered to you to make it less horror show...to you. Exercise. Don't drink and smoke too much (aka the recipe for wrinkly bloat). Stretch. Don't stress. You know. The stuff that they tell you about in the thousands and thousands of articles in magazines under the sneaky guise, "Secrets To Anti-Aging." It's called taking care of yourself. Duh.
But sticking botulism in your face? Sucking the love handles out of your sides or under your chin just makes you less floppy in one place? Dying your hair a color that isn't fooling anyone? It ain't going to stop the clock. In fact, sometimes it just makes you look wrong.
There are perks to aging. You are over 35. It is now. It isn't the someday that you were dreading. Youthful years of adulthood are very very short in the scheme of a lifetime and when you cross the ranks of middle age, the symptoms of aging arrive out of nowhere. Those tight butts have a real quick shelf life. Reproduction years are waning and the biological reason for attracting others is fading out. Folk's hair falls out but maybe your hair was supposed to be temporary, the propensity to gain weight due to build will not allow any leeway at all ever again (kiss cheating on diets goodbye). Those love handles that have been giving you grief are going to pick up power against you in the fight but dammit you have great legs, your eyes will have wrinkles, your chin jawline will seem a little less tight but your little nose looks even more adorable in this face. It is supposed to be that way. And its going to happen.
At a certain age, you hit a point when being disappointed in what was given to you is just sad because you are finally at a time where you can be who you are. Doesn't mean it can't be the best exercised healthy form but shy of unnatural acts, it is your natural process. Trying to find approval in a youthful environment with the expectations of a youthful body is just going to make you feel like shit being beautiful exactly the way you are. If you are being punished for being your age, fuck 'em if they don't like it. You earned this body and there is relief in not having to be worried that you have to envy everyone with body parts you didn't naturally have in your genetic code.
My time bomb will go off completely one of these days, just hopefully on my Ma's clock with folks who find me perfect the way I am supposed to be or at least rejoice in how great I look next to people my own age. To me it seems like there is nothing sadder than see a person abuse themselves for being natural. Not lazy. Just natural.
Middle age is insulting. It does things to your body that you can't believe is happening to you. Like you were going to escape the same thing that has happened to every human being luck enough to survive such a thing. Aging, you bastard!
Sure, there are things that you can do no matter what your genetic code that is delivered to you to make it less horror show...to you. Exercise. Don't drink and smoke too much (aka the recipe for wrinkly bloat). Stretch. Don't stress. You know. The stuff that they tell you about in the thousands and thousands of articles in magazines under the sneaky guise, "Secrets To Anti-Aging." It's called taking care of yourself. Duh.
But sticking botulism in your face? Sucking the love handles out of your sides or under your chin just makes you less floppy in one place? Dying your hair a color that isn't fooling anyone? It ain't going to stop the clock. In fact, sometimes it just makes you look wrong.
There are perks to aging. You are over 35. It is now. It isn't the someday that you were dreading. Youthful years of adulthood are very very short in the scheme of a lifetime and when you cross the ranks of middle age, the symptoms of aging arrive out of nowhere. Those tight butts have a real quick shelf life. Reproduction years are waning and the biological reason for attracting others is fading out. Folk's hair falls out but maybe your hair was supposed to be temporary, the propensity to gain weight due to build will not allow any leeway at all ever again (kiss cheating on diets goodbye). Those love handles that have been giving you grief are going to pick up power against you in the fight but dammit you have great legs, your eyes will have wrinkles, your chin jawline will seem a little less tight but your little nose looks even more adorable in this face. It is supposed to be that way. And its going to happen.
At a certain age, you hit a point when being disappointed in what was given to you is just sad because you are finally at a time where you can be who you are. Doesn't mean it can't be the best exercised healthy form but shy of unnatural acts, it is your natural process. Trying to find approval in a youthful environment with the expectations of a youthful body is just going to make you feel like shit being beautiful exactly the way you are. If you are being punished for being your age, fuck 'em if they don't like it. You earned this body and there is relief in not having to be worried that you have to envy everyone with body parts you didn't naturally have in your genetic code.
My time bomb will go off completely one of these days, just hopefully on my Ma's clock with folks who find me perfect the way I am supposed to be or at least rejoice in how great I look next to people my own age. To me it seems like there is nothing sadder than see a person abuse themselves for being natural. Not lazy. Just natural.
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