My first post on the new blog. I'm having a party to celebrate and you're all invited. The address is....hm. Probably shouldn't do that. Skip the party, I'll be thinking about you. I promise. Or maybe watching new wrinkles form around my eyes.
No, I'm not growing old gracefully. I've got a jackhammer with my name all over it and honey, I'm not afraid to use it! If I had the money, I'd be having face lifts and botox injections so I too could look like every celebrity that's managed to stick around past their twenties. No, I have no shame. Not when it comes to aging.
I. Don't. Like. It.
At all. One little bit. Nary at all. It sucks. I want my butt back. I'd like to be able to find my boobs without sending out a search and rescue party when I lie down. I want to go to bed without smelling of formaldehyde. In little sexy outfits even. I want my bedside table back. I used to have pretty little things there. Photographs, candles, a little journal.
Now I can't even find a place to lay my phone down for the bottles of creams and fillers....UGH.....yes ladies and gentlemen, they call them fillers. Like putty. Or spackle. What kind of marketing genius is that huh? Now I can feel like a house without even looking at my rear end in the mirror. Oh wait......I don't have a rear end anymore.
Now, I have a magnifying mirror. Tweezers. Fillers. Hair color. Dare I say it.....a girdle even. I haven't reached the depths of depravity that would cause me to actually wear it, but it's there for when that day comes. I can no longer combine comfort and sexy. If I look good, I have to pay the piper. If I'm comfy, well I darn sure don't look good. We won't even talk swimsuits. I refuse to bow down to the requirements of age where swimwear is concerned. I'd rather remain pasty, even if my family has to wear shades when I show my legs.
I spend my nights tweezing, buffing, exfoliating, slathering, shaping, sloughing, shaving, stretching and weeping for the days when my bedtime ritual consisted of a shower and a sexy little nightie.
To make matters worse, I live with an eighteen year old daughter.
Am I jealous of her? Naaaah. Would I rip off her left boob to have her body? Maybe. Who am I kidding, I'd settle for just her skin. When you're that age, you can still use the term alabaster when talking skin. At my age, words like granite, concrete and stucco come to mind.
So yes, I'm fighting. Kicking. Screaming. Swearing from time to time. And when I have money, I'm hitting up the aisles at Walgreens for the next new miracle that promises to restore youth and elasticity. I'm stalking Victoria's Secret picking out the bras I want when I have a nice young doctor put my nipples back where they're supposed to be. I'm considering asking my husband for that chemical he uses at work to see if I can make a do it yourself botox cocktail.
Until that time comes, you can find me in my cow pajamas with makeup case in hand. Just in case I have to go to the mailbox. After all, we all know the second you walk out of the front door in your pajamas and no makeup is when Hugh Jackman will wander up to your house, lost and looking for the nearest Starbucks.