With each passing year, new and different challenges jump in the way of my day-to-day life. More complicated computer programs, “new-fangled” gadgets for my cell phone (which force me to ask my children for assistance and translations), negotiating tax returns, getting my kids to email me… all those. Life can’t just wait until I catch up with it—it has to keep leapfrogging ahead. I find it very exhausting---must just be part of getting older.
My latest new challenge is plucking my eyebrows. I’m finding that standing my customary distance from the mirror is no longer sufficient for a clear view. In order to see my face, I have to stand nose-to-nose with the mirror in our dining room (where the light is better) and, without my glasses on, stick a pointy metal pincer millimeters from my eyeball and hope I yank a hair and not my iris. At this point, I’ve pulled the same hairs about 100,000 times. Why do they persist? Can’t I plug up the hair-hole?
Old age is Hell.
While on the subject of hair…what’s with the mustache region? I never had a problem when I was younger. So far I’m waxing, coloring, plucking, “Nair-ing” and shaving unwanted hairs on my body. Is it finally true what we they say about owners looking like their dogs? What if I just let it all grow in? I’d have a whole new career--“The Bearded, Farsighted Sasquatch Woman.” [I come from South African circus-folk—could be a recessive circus-folk gene]
It all makes sense now
I watched “Oprah” the other day and Dr. Oz was on presenting a startling magnification of skin that was sun-damaged. It looked like Mars with little beach-blankets of pigment buried deep in the sand. Apparently, as far as permanent skin damage goes--most of it occurs before you’re 21! THAT’S JUST GREAT! Stick it to Heidi again. All these years of maintaining my pasty, chicken-meat skin all summer long, donning “Mrs. Howell/Mrs. Roeper” type hats, wearing “prevent you from sweating” sunscreen/shellac and WHAT I’M HEARING is all that careful protection is useless because my “Irresponsible-baking in a blow-up-pool-basted with Hawaiian Tropic Frying Oil” days gave me the skin I’ll have…forever.
Old age is hell.
I went into a photo-booth with Krista at a local mall here recently. We took 4 photos. If she hadn’t been there, I would have torn them to shreds. Photo booths have this uncanny resolve to point out and accentuate liver spots on your face, which you never realized were there. Liver spots, which are so named because their color resembles liver, are also called sun spots or Lentigos (which somehow makes me hungry for Mexican food.) Having, previously unknown to me, Lentigos on my FACE in those photos makes me look like my Grandma. Now, if I want to see my Grandma again, all I have to do is go to a photo booth, force my eyebrows down with my hands and scrunch my cheeks together and Whoop-- there she is!
Today, I’m going to take advantage of my position in life and get myself a mood-altering pedicure. Maybe I’ll even ask for the senior discount. I’ll have to shave my toes first, of course.