Mirror Mirror..
Mirror Mirror..
I've never been much into the vanity thing. I figured I looked like I looked and that was, pretty much, that.
I wasn't traffic stopping type beautiful; but, I wasn't turn your head in horror either. Just kind of average. Blonde, hazel eyes, big boobs, thin; I could get out of tickets, garnish a few free drinks and keep my phone ringing. So, for the most part, I was pretty satisfied with how I looked.
When the crows feet started I was amazed at how it changed my face. At first I thought they added character. Personally, I think everyone looks better as they age; that young, innocent, unblemished look seems only really attractive when you're still in your pubescent stage.
I liked how they surrounded my eyes when I smiled. If nothing else, I have a great smile. It's all face and eyes and I know I can draw you in with it. The little lines seems to memorialize the fact that, despite everything, I was happy inside most of the time.
Then came the "smoker's lips". Those little lines around your mouth that are the curse of the smoker. Those lines; well, they're not character building at all. They seem to mock my weakness. "If you won't quit smoking, I'll brand your face for all to see".
The nose bridge indentations followed right on the heels of the smoker's lips. They seemed, somewhat, innocuous. They could as easily be from squinting in the sun as they could be from the permanent "angry" face. It was left to the beholder to decide how they came to be.
Then I noticed the sagging of my face. Standing in front of the mirror, I could take my fingers and, with just a little pressure and pull, I could see my young face again. This was no longer the face I knew; this was the face I wanted to change.
And, suddenly, mother's words came back to haunt me. "You better stop making that face or it'll stick to you forever." And it's true. The harsh, stressful and pain filled moments of my life have been etched into my face as by an artist. My smile can no longer disguise this fact. It's the same smile; but, the lines are too deep and pull your attention away.
I tell others I wouldn't change this face because it's mine. I like my face; and, regardless of the story it might tell, it's the face that describes me. This is not a true statement. I don't change my face because it's just too expensive.
I want the lines gone. I want to create a face that lived a different life. I see the faces of women who are older than me. Their faces are better, happier. Their faces still light up; the lines describe the joy they've felt with their every living moment. Their faces are recognizable. Their faces show their character.
I don't feel this way about my face. I've grown; changed, adapted. I've healed old wounds and nutured my soul. I've found strength and a sense of accomplishment within myself that my face doesn't reflect. I want my soul and my face to age simultaneously and this is not going to happen.
I finally understand The Picture of Dorian Gray. As Dorian revels in his absolute hedonism, his picture displays the ravages of his sins while he remains pristine and unmarred.
That is the face that belongs to me.
And the mirror and I are no longer friends.
My Bra Does Sports?
My Bra Does Sports?
Obviously, as many of you already know, I have a lot of spare time on my hands. Being spring and all, I was playing in the yard, pretending I was on one of those "We'll fix up your garden if you'll let us make a fool of you on TV and show everyone what a fucking lazyass you really are and you make everyone in the neighborhood wish you would die so they could bury you in the backyard so at least SOMETHING would grow" TV shows. And then it started raining so, I decided to rummage through the clothes and sort out the shit I don't fit into anymore. And to all you snarky bitches, NO! I haven't grown OUT of them.. they're too BIG!! (and then I woke up...)
And I found this "sports" bra. First, I don't remember buying this. My boobies do not DO sports. Their main mission in life is to keep my knees warm. But, I tried it on anyway; just to see what the hell a "sports" bra really is. (My English professor is rolling in her grave)
I now have a uni-boob. And this is a good look?
My other bras remind me of those scary things you used to find at Granny's house. Of course, I AM a granny; but, I dare say I won't get laid wearing these things.
So, I venture off to Victoria's Secret. And I now know the secret. They do NOT make bras for women over 25. I don't give a SHIT about Heidi Klum; there's something unnatural about her boobs anyway.
There's this "water" bra thingy. Seriously, a water bra. Evidently this thing pushes your boobies up and out, creating a cleveage that could hold up a building girder.
So I'm standing there and I am simply amazed at the plethora of bras on display. Every color in the rainbow, lacy little things, animal prints.. where the FUCK were these when I was young and the tits were perky??
Oh, yeah, wait. There's something I forgot to tell you. See, I USED to have GINORMOUS boobies. Like a double D or something. And I was pretty thin in those days and my feet were too small to keep me balanced. I could carry a tea set on them! I collected rain water in the grooves on my shoulders from the bra straps.
Then, there was the clothes issue. Button down shirts? No fucking way. Dresses? HA! I would have to buy the dress to fit the boobs and then the bottom half was big enough to shelter the population of, say, Los Angeles. Strapless bathing suits? Only if I didn't move or breath or go in the water. Turtlenecks? Can you say SKI JUMP? I had no choice but to buy huge, white Playtex Cross Your Heart bras.
So, when I was 30, I decided to have breast reduction surgery. I'm sitting in the doctor's office and we're discussing what size I want to be; when he hands me this conical shape device with markers indicating cup size. I cannot fit this thing on my boob. So, I take his hand and say, "this size".
He tells me after the surgery that he removed TWO POUNDS OFF EACH SIDE!! I cannot comprehend this. I go to the grocery store and grab a couple of 2 pound roasts and hold one in each hand. (No wonder the guys loved it when I played softball. I mean, I was pretty good. It's not like I couldn't hit the damn thing; but, no matter what, I made it to first base every time. "Just let her run!!") So now I can wear sexy little bras! I imagine myself doing a cute little striptease; sliding my dress down my waist, slowly exposing the sweet little thing now caressing my boobs.
Anyway. The sales girl ends up telling me "women at your age don't seem to fit right in our bras". Really. She says this. Out loud. To me. In public. It's not that I don't agree with her; while I'm trying these things on, my boobies do NOT look like the girl on the tag.
So now I'm at WalMart, in the afternoon, alone, without a gun, and I'm buying a Playtex. Cross Your Heart. White. With a pathetic looking little pink bow.
God.. I will NEVER get laid again.
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