Style at Any Age

I am pretty much OK with the way I look.  Of course, I could always look better, and I wish I weighed less, but what else is new?  There are things, however, that no one tells you about aging and what it does to the body.  Just as no woman tells you what it will feel like to push a human out of your vagina, no woman goes to the dark side to let you know the horror of what lies ahead when you look into the mirror during the last 30 or so years of your life.  Well, get ready, because it is not pretty.  Take notes if you dare.

The Arms Race

I work out pretty regularly so I feel like I should see at least a little muscle in my arms.  But, no matter how hard I work or how much I lift, when I raise my arms, let’s say to dance,  there is a force so powerful that it begins a ripple at the shoulders and continues down to my elbows. It is unstoppable. It isn’t just skin: it is skin then kind of a buffer layer, then what I can only refer to as blubber.  You could power a lantern for a week with my upper arm “material”.  I don’t remember when it happened.  I believe that if I had my arms liposuctioned they would look similar to my dog from behind after being neutered.  Need I say more?

Under my arms, my armpits actually, I have developed what I lovingly refer to as gobblers.  They resemble the thing that hangs off of a turkey’s beak.  I spoke to a plastic surgeon about them a couple of years ago, and he lovingly referred to them as pit-tits.  What girl doesn’t want to hear that whispered in her ear?  Could anything sound more lovely? More charming?  He said that it was just breast tissue.  Breast tissue?  I honestly don’t need more thank you.  I don’t need backup breast tissue. They aren’t quite big enough to tuck into my bra.  I might be able to tape them down like a Kardashian getting into a low cut gown.  The combination of my pit-tits and my swinging upper arms is why I do not wear sleeveless tops unless I am trying to frighten someone,  for example, to keep the middle seat clear in my row on a flight.

De-Feet

The final piece to this Little Body of Horrors has to do with my feet.  I don’t know about you but, I remember seeing my Grannie’s feet when I was young.  The thick, discolored nails and dry skin were rough and scratchy.  She had to go to the doctor to have her nails cut because they had thickened up with age.  Let me repeat that;  she had to go to the doctor to have her toenails clipped.  And my Mom had worn high heels for so long that she had to go to the doctor just to have the calluses shaved off the bottom of the balls of her feet.  Again, medical intervention for foot maintenance.  So let’s talk about mine.  My feet are so dry sometimes that they catch when I drag them across the sheets on my bed at night.  The skin is sharp, even though I get regular pedicures.  The woman who gives me those pedicures can barely cut my toenails because they are so hard and thick.  I don’t know what color they are because I refuse to look down until there is polish on them again and the earth returns to its axis.  When I leave, they are all shiny and moist, and in just a few hours they are back to their old gross, sharp selves.

So, is there any good news?  Is there any way to be happy when the body rebels?  Absolutely.  Just be happy.  Do what you can or what you want with your looks then forget them.  You are not going to look thirty again, ever.  Think about what your life looked like in your thirties: most likely it was full of babies and toddlers and laundry and cooking and cleaning and just plain working non-stop everyday.  It is exhausting to think about, right?  Well, we deserved to look good then.  And now, we deserve to have fun.  To live a life that is enjoyable and full, and to be at peace with our looks.