Long ago, I discovered the secret to buying (passably) flattering bathing suits: the worse you look the more you pay. (Hence, the Karla Coletto bazillion dollar(and worth every penny) bathing suit.) I then learned the secret to feeling young and attractive: hang out with the septaugenarians. I’ve bemoaned the new fahion-math: in Hollywood, size six is the new size twelve. I’ve questioned the new age-math (not new-age math, mind you, but new age-math) which tries to tell us that 40 is the new thirty, and 80 is the new sixty. By that logic, I’m actually getting younger every year.
Still, nothing prepared me for my recent beach-side discovery: post-forty, bodies age exponentially.
Think about it: what was your body like at 20? Was it so different at 25? At 30? Probably not. As a matter of fact, I was actually in better shape at 32 than I was at 22. At 32 I was working out, jogging, eating right. At 22 I was living in Paris, smoking, drinking wine, and thought exercise was something I only had to do in America, and only then when some oversized PE teacher was forcing me.
Now think of your body at 38. Then at forty. Then at 42. (If you haven’t reached this milestone, don’t read on: you might not want to know what’s next). Still the same body? Not so much, huh?
Last year, I noticed that my knees were wrinkling. Knees!! What the hell can you do about that? This year, my quads have joined in. Mind you, I weigh less (thank you Weight Watchers) this year than I did last, and the muscles are still under there: yoga and Nia, and weight training, and even ballroom dancing sees to that. But my skin doesn’t care. My skin is aging. Fast.
So is the rest of me. Today, I went to Tip Top Shoes to try to find stylish shoes that don’t bother my back or my bunion. There, I said it. BUNION. If that doesn’t say “your body is aging” well, what does? (By the way stylkish shoes adn bunion really don’t go together. I don’t care what Mephisto says.)
Then there’s the fact that I can no longer drink alcohol. I was never much of a drinker. Maybe a few glasses of wine once or twice a month. But now? ONE glass, and I’m out of commission for three days. Jeez.
It isn’t that I don’t want to get older (well, I don’t, but that’s not the point) The point is, why is it happening so fast? I pretty much looked the same from the time I was 20 until I was thirty. There were little changes – maybe my skin wasn’t quite as vibrant – but overall, the changes were just a difference – not a decline.
So all this leads me to one thing: should I change the name of my blog? Let’s face it, agelessbodytimelessmom.com is quite a mouthful, quite a thing to type in, and awfully hard to remember, from what I gather. (Does no one get the Deepak Chopra reference? Anyone? Anyone?)
I have been working on a manuscript for a while now, it’s called: From Hip to Housewife in Two Kids Flat. So I’m asking here — should I change my website’s name to FromHiptoHousewife.com? FromHip2Housewife.com? Or just keep it as is. Because, let’s face it, despite my best attempts, I’m not exactly ageless here.
Votes welcome. Vote, please, and fast. I’m not getting any younger.