Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Getting Old Sucks, episode 4

You know how you start to get older and your body just....does things that it didn't used to do? 

I mean, let's set aside the obvious issue of your hair turning grey. I've got full-on plausible deniability for the aging process in that realm via the bi-monthly ritual entitled Going To My Sorceress Hairdresser. I'm in complete denial that my visits are steadily becoming closer due to the grey going viral, thus resulting in the actual look and texture of my hair changing from smooth and silky to Chore Boy

Because there is no grey.  

No, I'm talking about other, more subtle yet infinitely more disturbing things.  

Like my skin. 

It's sagging

What. The. Hell? 

I mean, yeah, my boobs have been sagging for years. But that's different. They just don't make bras like they used to. 

No, I'm talking about my actual skin. Since when does it get to take on a life of its own?

I can totally ignore it for the most part. For instance, I've discovered if I don't smile or talk, I have no wrinkles. I bet I look fabulous sleeping. But then there are times when it just slaps me in the face that instead of nice, supple appendages that are firm and taut, I am now carrying around deflated balloons.  

Like when I'm at the gym.  

I know I've discussed the gestapo fitness instructor for several of my classes here before. One of her favorite little exercises to throw our way these days is Turbo Kick moves. You don't have to know anything more about Turbo Kick except it involves a LOT of punching. Punching up. Punching down. Side punch. Back punch. Upper cut. Under cut. Punch your neighbor. PUNCH your instructor. And every time I punch toward the front, which is a lot, I'm pretty much forced to observe my arms.

My skin moves and wrinkles when I punch. 

And let me clear here.  I'm not talking about my upper-arm body fat--that humiliating lump of flesh under my triceps that wags around unchecked and untamed.** No, I'm talking about the actual epidermis on my lower arms. I'm telling you, it wrinkles when I throw a punch. 


Picture, if you will, a slinky. 

Now move it.  

That's what my skin does.

It's beyond alarming. 

And it gets worse. Because I've also discovered if you pinch your skin, the result is nothing short of a mosh pit of limpy organ. That coating simply gathers up on either side now, like meek fabric folds ready to do your bidding.  Which looks great hanging from curtain rods or from your waist***, but I never bargained for that look on my extremities. 

I'm also loathe to admit the basic texture of my skin now resembles a gecko, even when I'm not working out. Especially in harsh light. Driving in the daytime has now become nothing but an exercise in humility. And NO AMOUNT of uber cream fixes the problem for any length of time. Trust me when I tell you I've tried them all. Temporary relief last four hours. If you're lucky. 

An art project in the wings, that's what my skin is these days. Just add some Rit Dye and go to town. I'm sure the end result from all the creases and crevices provided would be quite entertaining.  

Hello? No one gave me any warning about this. No one told me that my skin would go all rapscallion on me before I turned 44. I mean, yeah, I knew it was coming. But clearly it was supposed to retain the suppleness of an 18-year-old's until my 60th birthday. Then BAM! Overnight, I would wake up and discover my collagen moved to Sun City during my sleep.

Me to my skin: I have another 17 years to go before that happens, dammit! You stop it. 

My skin: Thhhppt.  -> 

*Except I asked her to give my highlights yesterday and I'm not at all sure I like them. 

**I refer to that area of my anatomy as my flags. I'm very sensitive about them, so if you happen to notice them, please don't salute them.

***These days, of course, it's "waist".  


Deirdre Newcomb said...

I want photos of the highlights!! :)

I actually went blonder to extend my trips to throw away my cash in the name of vanity to every 3 weeks.

Tanya said...

I completely understand why women go blond. I've told myself when I turn 50 I'm going natural. We'll see if I have the proverbial cahoonas to pull it off when the time comes.