I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how as we grow up, we don't even realize we're growing up. We don't wake up day after day, week after week, and notice small changes within ourselves. Rather, one day we all face this big, monumental sort of rude awakening; and that’s the day you want to pull the covers back over your eyes and snooze a little longer.
One minute, we’re just chugging along in life and then it just sort of "happens" that one day we take a critical look in the mirror and think, "Hummm….I didn't notice that tiny crinkle in my eye last time I looked." Or "Was that brownish patch on my neck always there?”
Not too long ago, I had my own freak-out moment when I noticed the skin on my hands had changed. At first, I thought I needed some seriously strong cream on them. They looked dry and scale-y and not as young and taut as I had remembered. After moisturizing and not noticing an improvement, I used my pointer finger to push around the skin on the back of my hand. With disgust, I could see the veins in my hands more prominently now and when I pinched the skin on top, it didn't lay back down as quickly as it used to. I realized that day my collagen was getting old and, therefore, so was I.
And that fact just snuck up on me, without any warning. One day: feeling youngish. Next day: feeling ancient. I wondered, where else was this getting old crap happening that I hadn't closely inspected?
I ran to my make-up mirror and stared at my reflection. This time I turned the mirror over to use the industrial-strength magnification side that is typically deemed useless I’m plucking a stray eyebrow hair or squeezing a blackhead. You know the side of the mirror that shows every bump and crater on your face? The side no one ever looks good in…
So there I was..staring, and noticing, and crying, and pinching and prodding and cursing. What happened to my 20-year-old self? I grew up being told I looked so incredibly young for my age and one day I would love that fact. Now approaching 40, it would be a great time to cash in my youth chip, but instead I’m faced with my old face and body. The claim window must have closed while I wasn’t paying attention. No fair!
After the make-up mirror, I had to inflict more self-loathing upon myself by making my way over to the full-length mirror. Because when it comes to self-loathing, I can’t just be satisfied with a facial inspection. No, I must find all of my flaws to criticize at once. Why dose out the contempt in manageable chunks when I can jump right into a big bucket of self-pity?
Standing semi-naked in my closet while inspecting my body like a prison guard is not for the faint-of-heart. If you haven’t yet done this yourself, I suggest a rather large glass of Merlot to temper the experience.
Slumping shoulders? Check! Droopy boobs even with breast lift? Semi-check! Pot belly? Check! Saggy ass, thighs and kneecaps? Check, check, check!
It was not pretty. However, now I’m completely up to speed with the patchwork of fine lines and wrinkles that mask my body (I’m not even talking about the stretch marks and puckers!) I’m now oh-so-familiar with every saggy patch of skin, like the gobbler that’s making its way under my neck, to my Sahara-dry elbows of a ninety year old woman.
By the time I got to my feet, which grew a size with kids but ultimately have maintained their girlish shape, I was emotionally drained as was the bottle of Merlot. Looking at my feet, I was thankful to end on a positive note when I observed that my pedicure still looked fresh. Whew….let me at least get my priorities straight.
But I still wonder: If 40 is the new 30 then why the hell didn’t someone care enough to let my body know?
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