So, last we spoke...we being me and the voices in my head so far, since I'm really just nattering to myself for the moment but moving on....I was undertaking to bore you later. It's now later.
I guess I should probably tell you why I started blogging. Here's why, at least I think here's why:
I'm through talking to myself in the mirror
Don't pretend you've never done it. Who hasn't talked to themselves in the mirror, carried on whole arguments in fact? You know, the ones where you work out some whole brilliant argument for why you're right and they're not...and then you get to the point where you have the ACTUAL argument with the person and they fold straight off the bat. There you are, flummoxed and more than a little pissed off 'cos now you don't get to use all your brilliant arguments. But...I digress. You will find that I do that a lot.
To get to my point, and as Ellen De Generes would say, I do have one, it's that looking at my nearly-40 self in the mirror is depressing. One look at my face and my heart drops. Like, all the way, down into my foot, creeps out between my toes and throws itself in front of a train somewhere. My once flawless skin that so many envied is now puffy and mottled and has sun damage and I have skin tags around my eyes. My eyes, for heaven's sake! At least I don't have wrinkles. I'm too fat to have wrinkles. We'll get to my fat. It's not going anywhere in a hurry. Even my eyelids have sagged. I'm going to file that one under weight gain rather than ageing...because then I can actually do something non-surgical about it.
Did I mention the facial hair? Let's start with the moustache, shall we, you know, the one I shaved with a razor when I was 12 (I'm starting to see everything went to hell when I was 12) when Charles Abrahams teased me in class about having a moustache. Of course, he noticed immediately that I had shaved it and then teased me about NOT having a moustache. Sheesh. Let's cut to the cruelest cut of all (we'll leave the obvious - grey roots - out of it for now. So pedestrian). Yes, chin hair. Sigh. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stand in the mirror and have a serious conversation with yourself when you see stubble George Michael would kill for growing out of your chin and ..*gulp*....occasionally, those long, random ones that sprout on your neck. Excuse me, I may have to go and lie down in a dark room for a while until this horrid feeling passes. More later.
Thursday 24 November 2011
Wednesday 23 November 2011
39 going on wtf????
I have no idea how I suddenly became 39-years old. If I were sliced through the middle, I'm sure the rings would only show 32 years, maybe 33....but then I'd be dead and then none of this would really matter. At least, I wouldn't be....er....*fails to make eye contact*......fo...for.....*throws up a little in mouth*...ok, forty. There, I said it!
I'm turning 40 on 4 June 2012 and it's eating away at my soul. Why am I struggling with it so much though? I loved 30, embraced it, thought it was the perfect age to be old enough to be taken seriously and young enough to still look good. But this 40 business, oy, it's just wrong, I tell you, wrong. *insert existential crisis here*
Perhaps I'd best take you back to when I was a stupid 12-year old (is there any other kind of 12-year old?), to give you an idea of how far my reality has diverged since.
At age 12, I was 1.72m, had long, dark hair down to my butt and was considered fat at about 8kgs overweight (what I wouldn't give to be "that" fat again). I was a staunch Catholic and I was going to be a millionaire by 30, having modelled my way to the top and I'd meet the man of my dreams and we'd move into our mansion in Hollywood with the double-volume ceilings large enough for our 10-metre tall Christmas tree. I'd be a virgin when we married, of course, and because my own family sucked so much (at the time, anyway), I'd be embraced by his wonderful, loving family and we'd have a little zoo with 4 dogs (blue-eyed Husky, Labrador, Alsatian and Dalmatian) and various cats and my own personal tiger.
So here I am at age 39 and all I have is the Labrador....and the crazy fat-single- lady-over-30 collection cats. Where oh where did I go so horribly wrong?
I'm not going to bore you with that now. I'll bore you with it later.
I'm turning 40 on 4 June 2012 and it's eating away at my soul. Why am I struggling with it so much though? I loved 30, embraced it, thought it was the perfect age to be old enough to be taken seriously and young enough to still look good. But this 40 business, oy, it's just wrong, I tell you, wrong. *insert existential crisis here*
Perhaps I'd best take you back to when I was a stupid 12-year old (is there any other kind of 12-year old?), to give you an idea of how far my reality has diverged since.
At age 12, I was 1.72m, had long, dark hair down to my butt and was considered fat at about 8kgs overweight (what I wouldn't give to be "that" fat again). I was a staunch Catholic and I was going to be a millionaire by 30, having modelled my way to the top and I'd meet the man of my dreams and we'd move into our mansion in Hollywood with the double-volume ceilings large enough for our 10-metre tall Christmas tree. I'd be a virgin when we married, of course, and because my own family sucked so much (at the time, anyway), I'd be embraced by his wonderful, loving family and we'd have a little zoo with 4 dogs (blue-eyed Husky, Labrador, Alsatian and Dalmatian) and various cats and my own personal tiger.
So here I am at age 39 and all I have is the Labrador....and the crazy fat-single- lady-over-30 collection cats. Where oh where did I go so horribly wrong?
I'm not going to bore you with that now. I'll bore you with it later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)