Thursday I turned 56 and I'm not bothered in the least. Aside from the diabetes and a bum knee that only acts up occasionally, I’m as fit as a fiddle. I don’t take any drugs, have no aches or pains and I could spring out of bed in the morning like any woman half my age if I wanted too. Like everything, age is relative. A few years back 56 seemed ancient, and maybe a bit scary, but now it’s a comfortable fit. I am happy with who I am and wouldn’t want to go back for all the tea in China, although if tea were wool, I might digress.
Someone came into the shop the other day and after a bit of chat, said that they are a lot older than they looked and asked me to take a guess. I winked and said playfully, “Sir, I don’t want to flatter or insult you so I’d rather not play that game.” We both laughed and to further the conversation I added lightly that I am also older than I look, not meaning to cajole him into a guessing game, but for some reason he jumped right in and asked if I was 63. Not expecting anything quite so high, my face must have registered a bit of shock. I suppose it was amusing as he tried to backtrack, tripping over his words to explain why he landed on that particular number......I could see the heel of a foot sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to swallow it. If he was 69, which he confessed quickly to make the 63 appear youthful, you would think in all his years of dealing with women, especially with the wife standing beside him shooting daggers in his direction, he’d have learned to keep quiet when it comes to this topic. Maybe he’s an experienced shoe chewer, or a bit naïve, or maybe he was calling it as he saw it. Could it be possible that I look 63? Maybe the fact that I don’t use a moisturizer is catching up with me?
Truthfully, I’m not vain so the man’s declaration didn’t impact my day, but it got me thinking about spending a bit more time on my appearance, so I look the age I am. I’m a bit on the dowdy side, my friends will agree, and maybe the lethargy to which I choose my wardrobe ages me prematurely. I’m never wrapped in pretty scarves or blinged up although I have a large box filled with jewellery and even stranger, make it. The crow in me likes to covet and look at these possessions but I never think of putting it on. I wear the same pair of hoop earrings every day and will until I lose one in a fateful accident like a dog chewing or flipped off in a seat belt tug.
Anyway, I would like to stress, I have absolutely no problem looking 56. I just don’t want to look 63. I could slather nighttime moisturizer all over my face, going to bed looking like a victim of a Crisco shortening explosion but I don’t believe external products prevent wrinkles, as preached by dermatologists who say products that promise anti-aging or reversing the signs of, are a waste of time and money. I do believe hydration comes from within and I drink a fair amount of water so my skin is what it is. Softening this mug and plumping the wrinkles is about as futile an effort and foolhardy a thinking as wanting to live to be 150. It ain’t gonna happen! All I ask is to look 56 now and 63 when I get there, no jumping the gun.
When it all boils down I would rather develop my brain than work hard at diminishing wrinkles. Like a prosecutor, I pick the battles I can win and stay clear of the losing ones. I think what’s inside far outweighs what is on the outside. The exterior is only temporary; you need to come to terms with that and move on because only our minds remain constant. To be this blasé, maybe I have the emotions of a turnip, making me a far cry from the average woman who seems to love to shop and look their best. If the economy depended on this gal to keep the cosmetic and fashion industry afloat we’d all smell badly and run around naked. It just isn’t something I think or care about.
I make jokes about not wanting to look old, but that’s me playing the comedian. I really don’t understand the concept of eternal youth and cosmetic surgery. To try to hold on to something that will slip away like water in your hand is pointless. Trying to remain young is sad, dangerous and a total waste of time and money. Stretching facial skin to extremes is a horror story, no different than a Dracula or a Ted Bundy type on the loose. The money wasted on alterations and Botox is in the multi billions, and what is the purpose when it doesn’t last or worse, morphs you into a monster? Why not feed the starving and help the homeless. Joan Rivers alone could have saved the lives of thousands of starving children. Instead the money she wasted allowed doctors to drive expensive cars and live in multi-million dollar mansions. And yes I know it's a person's right to do what they want with their own body and money but I can still have an opinion.....
I know a gal with butt implants. What a ridiculous waste of money. Walking around with gel packs in your ass, how does that make one feel better about themselves? How does that improve your life? My buttocks dropped to the back of my knees decades ago, I know where they are so I don’t worry. As long as it stays there and doesn’t travel to my ankles I’m good with it. How would a rounded rump make me a better person? Make my life better? The cookie cutter answer is “It makes me feel better about myself.” Call me a dork, but I really don’t understand how it makes you feel better to sit on a pocket of silicone, please someone explain it so I do.
I do have one or two little vises though. Lipstick being one of them. I can’t give it up even though I know I’m smearing mercury and thallium on my skin. I only wear it to diffuse the redness of my face, a scourge that’s been haunting me since my thirties. I’m told its rosacea and I could have a laser treatment to make it go away but the chances of my outer layers of skin fusing to the underlying muscle, or one of the many other things that could go wrong, is enough to scare me off. One person in 1000? Those odds are not good enough. 1 in a billion is getting better but I’ll still pass. And Botox, or ass fat injected into lips, I say, “what’s wrong with paper thin lips?” No one has ever complained when I kissed them. Some of the lips out there are frightening, you could suffocate in their mass.
Maybe not possessing beauty has allowed me to build character on the inside. I’ve done alright for myself without all the cosmetic and name brand superficial stuff. I’ve been loved, never long without a husband or a boyfriend, not necessarily in that order or at the same time. Even as a young woman I never had more than a casual interest in my own physical appearance, or desire to dress it up. I’ve had to wear suits and office attire in my former life, but now it's simple, I work in a job that doesn’t call for dolling up. I like to look at pretty things on other women but have no desire to shop for, maintain or wear anything that can’t be thrown on my back after a quick iron or have to worry that it will get ruined by grippers or a marker slip. What I wear has to have the longevity of Kevlar, its look is secondary.
I don’t believe I’ve lost out on being disinterested in the physical body or dressing like a page out of a magazine. I keep myself clean and care little that I will be old and withered at my turn on the geriatric ride. I don't fight the inevitable, it's a battle I can't win. I'm not going to fill the wrinkles with spackle or use make-up that is one step away from epoxy. I’m going to grow old naturally, and as long as I can think coherent thoughts, be creative and gaze upon my loved ones through cataracts that I’ll refuse to have removed, I will be content in my Shar-Pei like skin all the way to the end.
Someone came into the shop the other day and after a bit of chat, said that they are a lot older than they looked and asked me to take a guess. I winked and said playfully, “Sir, I don’t want to flatter or insult you so I’d rather not play that game.” We both laughed and to further the conversation I added lightly that I am also older than I look, not meaning to cajole him into a guessing game, but for some reason he jumped right in and asked if I was 63. Not expecting anything quite so high, my face must have registered a bit of shock. I suppose it was amusing as he tried to backtrack, tripping over his words to explain why he landed on that particular number......I could see the heel of a foot sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to swallow it. If he was 69, which he confessed quickly to make the 63 appear youthful, you would think in all his years of dealing with women, especially with the wife standing beside him shooting daggers in his direction, he’d have learned to keep quiet when it comes to this topic. Maybe he’s an experienced shoe chewer, or a bit naïve, or maybe he was calling it as he saw it. Could it be possible that I look 63? Maybe the fact that I don’t use a moisturizer is catching up with me?
Truthfully, I’m not vain so the man’s declaration didn’t impact my day, but it got me thinking about spending a bit more time on my appearance, so I look the age I am. I’m a bit on the dowdy side, my friends will agree, and maybe the lethargy to which I choose my wardrobe ages me prematurely. I’m never wrapped in pretty scarves or blinged up although I have a large box filled with jewellery and even stranger, make it. The crow in me likes to covet and look at these possessions but I never think of putting it on. I wear the same pair of hoop earrings every day and will until I lose one in a fateful accident like a dog chewing or flipped off in a seat belt tug.
Anyway, I would like to stress, I have absolutely no problem looking 56. I just don’t want to look 63. I could slather nighttime moisturizer all over my face, going to bed looking like a victim of a Crisco shortening explosion but I don’t believe external products prevent wrinkles, as preached by dermatologists who say products that promise anti-aging or reversing the signs of, are a waste of time and money. I do believe hydration comes from within and I drink a fair amount of water so my skin is what it is. Softening this mug and plumping the wrinkles is about as futile an effort and foolhardy a thinking as wanting to live to be 150. It ain’t gonna happen! All I ask is to look 56 now and 63 when I get there, no jumping the gun.
When it all boils down I would rather develop my brain than work hard at diminishing wrinkles. Like a prosecutor, I pick the battles I can win and stay clear of the losing ones. I think what’s inside far outweighs what is on the outside. The exterior is only temporary; you need to come to terms with that and move on because only our minds remain constant. To be this blasé, maybe I have the emotions of a turnip, making me a far cry from the average woman who seems to love to shop and look their best. If the economy depended on this gal to keep the cosmetic and fashion industry afloat we’d all smell badly and run around naked. It just isn’t something I think or care about.
I make jokes about not wanting to look old, but that’s me playing the comedian. I really don’t understand the concept of eternal youth and cosmetic surgery. To try to hold on to something that will slip away like water in your hand is pointless. Trying to remain young is sad, dangerous and a total waste of time and money. Stretching facial skin to extremes is a horror story, no different than a Dracula or a Ted Bundy type on the loose. The money wasted on alterations and Botox is in the multi billions, and what is the purpose when it doesn’t last or worse, morphs you into a monster? Why not feed the starving and help the homeless. Joan Rivers alone could have saved the lives of thousands of starving children. Instead the money she wasted allowed doctors to drive expensive cars and live in multi-million dollar mansions. And yes I know it's a person's right to do what they want with their own body and money but I can still have an opinion.....
I know a gal with butt implants. What a ridiculous waste of money. Walking around with gel packs in your ass, how does that make one feel better about themselves? How does that improve your life? My buttocks dropped to the back of my knees decades ago, I know where they are so I don’t worry. As long as it stays there and doesn’t travel to my ankles I’m good with it. How would a rounded rump make me a better person? Make my life better? The cookie cutter answer is “It makes me feel better about myself.” Call me a dork, but I really don’t understand how it makes you feel better to sit on a pocket of silicone, please someone explain it so I do.
I do have one or two little vises though. Lipstick being one of them. I can’t give it up even though I know I’m smearing mercury and thallium on my skin. I only wear it to diffuse the redness of my face, a scourge that’s been haunting me since my thirties. I’m told its rosacea and I could have a laser treatment to make it go away but the chances of my outer layers of skin fusing to the underlying muscle, or one of the many other things that could go wrong, is enough to scare me off. One person in 1000? Those odds are not good enough. 1 in a billion is getting better but I’ll still pass. And Botox, or ass fat injected into lips, I say, “what’s wrong with paper thin lips?” No one has ever complained when I kissed them. Some of the lips out there are frightening, you could suffocate in their mass.
Maybe not possessing beauty has allowed me to build character on the inside. I’ve done alright for myself without all the cosmetic and name brand superficial stuff. I’ve been loved, never long without a husband or a boyfriend, not necessarily in that order or at the same time. Even as a young woman I never had more than a casual interest in my own physical appearance, or desire to dress it up. I’ve had to wear suits and office attire in my former life, but now it's simple, I work in a job that doesn’t call for dolling up. I like to look at pretty things on other women but have no desire to shop for, maintain or wear anything that can’t be thrown on my back after a quick iron or have to worry that it will get ruined by grippers or a marker slip. What I wear has to have the longevity of Kevlar, its look is secondary.
I don’t believe I’ve lost out on being disinterested in the physical body or dressing like a page out of a magazine. I keep myself clean and care little that I will be old and withered at my turn on the geriatric ride. I don't fight the inevitable, it's a battle I can't win. I'm not going to fill the wrinkles with spackle or use make-up that is one step away from epoxy. I’m going to grow old naturally, and as long as I can think coherent thoughts, be creative and gaze upon my loved ones through cataracts that I’ll refuse to have removed, I will be content in my Shar-Pei like skin all the way to the end.
Wednesday evening was a hook-in night and a few of the gals surprised me with a bit of early birthday fun. The weather was miserable, raining cats and dogs and a few horses so most didn't venture out but the diehards were here. There was wine, cheesecakes and the most delectable cupcakes ever. Anne Holmes daughter Angela who owns Angela's Delectable Delights in Halifax made two trays of the most exquisite apple Cinnamon cupcakes with a cream cheese frosting you could ever eat. There were heavenly! Check out Angela's Facebook page for some sweet eye-candy. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Angelas-Delectable-Delights/539670542737318?ref=br_tf
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