Saggy Boobs & Botox

As I'm about to turn the big 4-0, I've been thinking about life. How blessed I have been to do the things I have done in the past 40 years. How blessed I've been to meet so many wonderful people. How puzzled and intrigued to have met so many questionable people. (I will not go into the description of the individual with whom I shared an elevator ride this morning.) And how sad I am when I think about how time flashes before our eyes.



I do not feel 40, whatever that is, and I do not consider it old. Age doesn't seem to be an issue in my family. There's no botox, no boob jobs, no facial peels (showing smooth translucent facial skin with a neck standing out like chicken feet), no butt lifts. Nothing fun that I know of. That's entirely okay with me. Not to say that I won't be doing that facial peel sometime in the future or getting the dark circles under my eyes camouflaged with fat sucked from my thighs, I might. But I probably won't. My home needs too many repairs.



We age for a reason. If I get that peel, will I lose that slight scar on my chin from falling out the car at the drive-in when I was 3? (I'm spoiled, I really, really wanted to go ride on the merry go round and NOT watch the movie. My parents had other ideas so I just opened the car door.) If I lose that scar, will I lose the memory too? The old cliche of how every wrinkle tells a different story is true. It has to be. To prohibit those may keep me in a vacuum I can't get out of. Trapped in a time warp of 1987 with no telltale signs of life's experiences. Sounds refreshing for a minute. Then sad when people walk by my casket saying, "she looks like Joan Rivers". People really do this you know.



Life isn't perfect. We were not created perfect. My boobs will never raise themselves the much needed inches to be college perkier. They will continue to gravitate towards my feet forever. HOWEVER, when I accidentally bump into someone they WILL NOT feel like stabbing elbows. THAT's a good thing.



My hair is graying. I vainly cover it up with dye. It doesn't last. Continuing this process is something I plan to do until I'm too feeble to realize what I'm doing. Then I will continue to dye it. It may look blue, lavender, pink, who knows. I will take pleasure in this. It will make me happy. Happy not to have these WIREY, KINKY gray/white hairs stand at attention like wrought iron.



Lets discuss varicous veins shall we? Varicous veins have been passed from generation to generation on the paternal side of my life. I don't really notice them until I accidentally bump my shin. Then I want to puke. They don't protrude too bad yet, but it's coming. I hear them whispering on ocassion. Walking all those miles on concrete hasn't helped. But let me tell you, it's been fun. I wouldn't trade those miles for anything.



On to feet. My feet. I do worry about my feet. I have a skin issue. I don't like nasty skin. On my feet or anywhere else. Religiously I slather on moisturizer. I refuse to walk around in my cute red sandals with cracked heals. The day my toenails start growing towards the sky, I promise I will retire my cute red sandals. I-promise-I-promise! Really I do.



My eyes will also continue to wrinkle and age. But they still see. They see beauty radiating from the inside of people. I know who you are immediately. There's a difference. No plastic, no frills, no insincere beauty that doesn't match the rest of the package. Beauty from the inside will never be shadowed to people who have eyes that really see.

Is this a downhill slide? Turning 40? I don't think so. My boobs will sag. My butt will droop. Aren't there really worse things in life?