Today’s musings post is dedicated to the mirror that tells the truth whether one sees/wants to see it or not. Most people do see it, I think. It’s why they try to change the truth.
Well, I’m not lonely, but I wonder where my beautiful curly strawberry blonde hair went and when all that white appeared. Meh, at least it looks white now and not just dirty. As every ginger knows, 1) gingers turn white, not silver or gray, b. ginger and white do not take color well, and iii—coarse curly hair takes color even worse than ginger and white. Add ’em all up and I’m in a world of hurt here. So the question is: Do I want to go through the trouble, expense, and time to get a super-duper-pooper-scooper dye job just to watch it fade next week?
My face and neck are still unlined (and freckled [as opposed to liver-spotted]) but that’s because I have fabulous skin genes and I’m still carrying too much weight. When I reach my goal, I’ll be showing my age much worse than just white hair. I had a doctor tell me once, “Now, you look really young. If you do lose the weight, you’re going to look much older.” Indeed, I see friends my age all around me showing off their weight loss. They look good, but they … don’t … really.
Yeah, so that Nikki Sixx, man, he came back from the dead. Twice. (Heroin must be a preservative.) At 10 years older than I, he looks much better than he did when he was 25, with a little meat on his bones (she said, for the pervatarians). He dyes his hair. Then I look closer and, um, well, without the makeup and a touchup … maybe not so much around the edges.
Besides, in my post-menopausal state, I like Sixx A.M. so much better than I ever liked Mötley Crüe.
Eh, most men carry it better anyway, but blond men certainly don’t. We won’t even talk about black people because honey, black don’t crack.
See, that OMWC, he’s aging right, still basking in children’s joy and gently guiding young ones into his va— I mean, capitalism via cand— restauranteurship. What an exciting way to spend one’s September years.
Better him than me.
I was brought up knowing that side of the family dies young from immediately fatal myocardial infarctions. My dad started making plans at 42 after his cousin died. He wasn’t quiet about it mostly as a lesson to us kids that we needed to prepare early. It was a good thing, too, because he was 51 when he had his immediately fatal myocardial infarction. I made death plans. No life plans. Last year, I told my cardiologist whom I see solely because of family health history, about this. He looked at me and said, “Start making some.”
Well, okay, then Doc.
“So we’ve talked about that side of the family. Let’s talk about the other one, specifically the women.”
… um …
Late to mid 90s, late 80s, only problems are aches, pains, and joints that make them wish they had a family history of dying young. They are getting heart problems here and there, brought on by age, that get sorted out with medication. I have one aunt out of five who has a heart problem at an age she probably shouldn’t but her body has been abused (read: not necessarily by herself) (she is now a widow) (I wish I could take credit for that).
My mom’s 78. She is so done with this life, but she has to keep on truckin’.
I am so used to seeing her a certain way, and when I look—really look—she is unrecognizable to me.
I look in a mirror and I see what I expect my mother to look like, instead of like a doppelgänger of young Melanie Griffith.
My friend who had COVID in August died on the 22nd. She planned the whole thing. Her sister went to visit her in the rehab center in January. Linda clapped her hands and excitedly said, “Let’s plan my funeral!” She said she wanted to get there and help plan the second coming. Because that’s what Linda does—organize. She’ll have the heavenly host lined up in alphabetical order in no time.
I don’t fear death. I’ll go find Linda and ask her what she wants me to do because that’s how we do it.
It’s that. If I felt 54, I could accept this a little more phlegmatically than I am.
Every time I go somewhere with XY tax deduction, he wants me to pick the music because he’s always so surprised at how “edgy” my (hair band) music is and how much he likes it. Oh, son, my poor, deluded son. I am afraid you are no match for Yngwie Malmsteen and the Sex Pistols.
I feel 16 and stupid, as if I haven’t lived life or learned anything at all. In short, the outside doesn’t match the inside.
But what I also never did with any long-term commitment at all was dress for my personality, which has not fundamentally changed.
I’m still an attention whore at heart, still a showman, still a drama queen. I’m getting older. I’ll be excused a lot of bad behavior. So what I decided to do was fill my closet with wild and whacky boho clothes, keep my hair long (that is not me) (occasionally wrapping it up in colorful scarves so people think I have cancer and be really nice to me), wear Indian wedding jewelry, continue to spread the gospel of Birkenstock, and let people think I’m a crazy gypsy* lady.
Well, that’s one mistake I didn’t make when I was 16 and stupid.
*Pinterest won’t let you search with the word “gypsy”. Pinterest wants you to know that it is “no place for hate”.