I know what some of you have been thinking: “Wait! She can write about something other than herself?!?!? Where’s the humor? Whence the jokes? Wherefore all the political stuff?”
Fear not. I’m back. I mean, why should I worry about right-wing, tale-telling, potential leaders of the free world when I can obsess over my age spots? Priorities people. Priorities.
I’ve been writing for months now about the beginning of the end for my body. In the past few weeks, things have gotten worse. And today — well, I can’t even talk about it. (and yet, you know I will.)
Here’s what’s been going on:
First, I have started needing longer arms. You know, so I can read all that teeny weeny print on everything. I call it “trombone-arm” because that’s how I have to move it to be able to see anything. Can I read the newspaper at a high C? Nope. Middle C? B flat? G? And down the scale until I might as well be playing the tuba, I’m so low. I know what’s next, the indisputable sign that one is over the hill: reading glasses. Just give me a wattle, a polyester pant-suit, and a funny hat for luck and I’ll meet you at the bingo hall.
Then there’s this, when I was in downward dog the other day, I got a look at my thighs and knees from that angle. Try it. No really, get up from the computer, put something on that allows you to see your upper legs, and get into downward dog. Now, if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you’re at least my age, so you’ll probably see what I see. It’s OK. I’ll wait.
Ok. Did ya do it? Not too pretty, was it? I call those Sharpei knees.When all that excess skin just pools together and makes you look like you could use a good ironing. But what it’s really called is gravity, baby. And you can’t exercise it away. I’ve looked it up, there is no such thing as an exercise to firm up the skin around your knee caps. Deal with it.
There’s the fact that I can no longer drink even the littlest bit of alcohol without paying for it the next day. I can nurse one glass of wine for a full meal, go to sleep, and wake up feeling like I look: old, crusty, and like I’ve seen better days.
But the final blow came today. For a business meeting with a fashion executive, I put on a pair of heels. Heels make me look slimmer. They make my legs look good. And, evidently, they really really hurt my back, because tonight, I am IN PAIN.
Is this the end of heels for me? Is this the end of sexy peep-toes and strappy sandals, and those Pucci slides I bought last spring because really, what girl doesn’t need a pair of purple and turquoise swirly printed three inch stilletto heeled mules? Am I doomed to the final indignity: orthopedic shoes?
Kill me now. And bury me in a pair of Blahniks.
I happen to have been in Harry’s the other day, an excellent local shoe store with everything from Walter Steiger and Cole Hahn to the euphemistically named “comfort shoes.” These are not nice shoes. These are not flattering shoes. These shoes don’t make me look slimmer, they make me look like I ought to get a bad perm and start mall-walking for fun.
Ballerina flats, I know, are all the rage. But those only work if your legs are up to your armpits, you’re 23, and gravity hasn’t taken hold of your KNEES!!!
So I’m doomed. Soon I’ll be a reading-glasses wearing, tea-totaling, flabby kneed, bad permed, bingo player wearing orthopedic shoes.
Now how can I worry about a socially backward, fiscally crazy, war-continuing, non-environmentally friendly, anti-choice, pro-Bush, picked that nasty wacko as a running-mate candidate becoming president with that hanging over my head?