It snowed here last night. I’ve longed for snow all winter, but now I’m ready to plant flowers, wear pastels, and paint my fingernails pink. Figures. March 1 – in like a lion, I suppose. Ugh.
The kids and I had a full day of errands yesterday in the area of our former stomping grounds, which included a trip to the mall. The refreshing window displays of espadrilles, cotton skirts, and bright colors awakened my spirits and filled me with anticipation for the upcoming months. And though I’m pinching pennies lately, I even tried on a few irresistible things. Nothing like shopping when my skin is pasty white and my weight is uncomfortably high to make me feel beautiful. I went home with nothing but some value-priced panties from Victoria’s Secret in practical colors and a jar of my favorite moisturizer. Ugh.
The mall is a sad place for me these days.
The perfectly shaped little teeny-boppers with their skinny jeans easily tucked into their Ugg boots look like clones of each other. Tight, layered tops show off their firm bodies, and their long, layered hair still looks soft and smooth against their creamy-skinned faces. They wear all the great styles I see in the shop windows, and with a sinking feeling, I realize I’ll never be able to wear most of it again, regardless of my weight. Ugh.
Then we have the surgically-altered category, which includes women who are probably my age and older. They want to be in the teeny-bopper category so badly, but their uniform is some sort of Juicy Couture velour sweat suit with trendy little sneakers in a color to match. Their lips are misshapen from too much collagen, and their hair overwhwelms their shrinking features, while their boobs are still pert and their sweatpants hang funny since they have no ass after all that lipo. Ugh.
The rest of us melt into the background – intentionally – because our clothes are practical to cover up that extra fat, our purses are functional, not fabulous, and if we have makeup on, it’s probably from yesterday. We stare at the other two groups and know for sure that while we don’t like being a Plain Jane, we never want to be a Velour Sweatsuit, and, unfortunately, that we’ll never ever again be a Teeny-Bopper, regardless of our accessories and miracle beauty products. It’s really sort of sad. Ugh.
Over the past few months, I’ve watched myself age daily. My age-spotted hands are veiny and wrinkly. I can keep my hair color young, but the texture is still wirey and frizzy, no matter what. While I embraced the fine lines around my eyes okay, I cannot accept the wrinkly decollete and neck. I just can’t. It makes me feel sick and helpless, and it reminds me of my mortality. Ugh.
I don’t want to grow old.