The Comfy Slide into Middle Age
While glancing in a public restroom mirror (not the most flattering light in which to observe oneself), a routine thought crossed my mind: perhaps I should do something with my hair.
Through this observation, it was obvious that the options to fluff, style or more importantly, give a damn, might be in order. Or here’s a new concept for improving my appearance: just try.
I believe, if you’re happy with what reflects back in a public restroom mirror, you’re a fruit cake. Nothing says you reach for the stars like approval of your presentation in a mirror below an interrogation bulb in a shared space with strangers who like to piss on the rim.
Like that’s the sign of a rebel.
On the contrary, if you’re a pleaser who believes having sex anywhere is sexy and want to put your best face forward in said situation, pose in that mirror, annoy people who are waiting, and prepare for the time when your mate wants to bone where people pee.
That’s definitely a turn on.
Nothing makes it apparent that physical perfection is paramount to everything else like casting Jennifer Garner as the love interest of every old guy in Hollywood. Ever. Or electing a president who publicly acknowledged that, if not related, he’d date his daughter. And because of his wealth, that’s feasible.
Rose colored glasses have been replaced with the veil of cold, hard cash. And, trust me, without Viagra, that’s the only thing getting hard. We’ve evolved into a society where Stepford Wives have been replaced with Stepford vaginas.
I heard there’s even a Survivor reunion. Only breasts and penises are scheduled to appear.
The market on fake eyebrows, fake lashes, eyeliner tattoos, augmented breasts and body sculpting, now boasts a spray that sets your makeup overnight so you can awake like a Photoshop-ed supermodel. And that’s before you turn thirty.
Anti-aging is an expectation that only expands over time. When I ponder botulism injections, surgical and non-surgical facelifts, vagina tucks, hairstyles for “older” women, Spanx, and Cindy Joseph telling me what makeup is appropriate for “aging” women, all I want to say is “Fuck you.”
The obsession with anti-aging is an indication of only one certainty: we’re obsessed with not looking old. However, by virtue of striving to look other than we do, we’re only creating a society where we’ll always want to look other than we do.
Yearning, wanting and needing are states of mind that only perpetuate more yearning, want and need. Presence of mind doesn’t apply. There is no contentment. Simply being you isn’t good enough. Other cultures value the wisdom that comes with age, but in ours, we value the vagina.
Virgin ones at that.
Better disconnect that odometer.
And another thing…
Recently, I watched a young male comedian on his Netflix comedy special spout in the middle of his routine, “Women, if you don’t give blow jobs, you’ll be lonely.”
Fuck you too.
When I turned fifty, I gave myself permission to never go down on a dick again. Hell, it’s hard enough watching them on YouTube.
Obviously, based on the popularity of the electronic erection vacuum, a device I recommend Googling on a computer other than your own (damn Google ads), couples can watch an episode on Netflix while the old man warms into a hard-on.
I would imagine this modern marvel came about when Dyson was looking for a way to dispose of the million cordless pieces of shit they made. Then some oddball, minimum wage guy on the production floor said, "Hey, if you're looking for suggestions..." He's obviously married to someone like me. Desperation is the mother of invention. Oh my God, by cutting off my husband I've actually fostered innovation. I'll die a hero.
Being married, you might think mine was a selfish, impulsive decision. But considering I used the entire decade of my forties as a no-hummer test-run, all I had to do was permanently commit. And because I’m married to a grown-up, the repercussions were limited to occasional whining. Which I ignored.
At my age, I’m really good at that.
And if you care, here are some other things I’m really good at:
Knowing when the look on my son’s face means he needs to talk.
Knowing specifically what the dog wants while the rest of my family acts like she’s an alien.
Consistently identifying the exact last possible moment to start a load of laundry before everyone leaves the house naked.
Knowing how many people I can feed with the spoons that are clean.
Knowing that buying additional spoons is an option but instead splurging on high quality chocolate.
Feeling a kinship with an older woman who has an inch of gray root instead of feeling superior.
Throwing the F bomb.
Obviously, getting fired.
Not Googling myself.
Avoiding everything Kardashian.
Appreciating classic rock ‘n roll.
Truly, madly, deeply believing that not one person, on her death bed, has ever wished she’d spent more time cleaning the house.
Pushing anything until tomorrow.
Knowing who my friends are.
Riding a horse.
I look my age because it’s my age. Oddly, I’m comfortable with that. And being comfortable as we age isn’t unattractive, it’s earned.
Fifty isn’t the new forty. It’s just fifty. If you're lucky, you'll reach sixty and look in that public restroom mirror knowing that the alternative is to not be here at all.
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