Menopausal Mother

 
     It happens one morning when you wake up, glance in the bathroom mirror and realize your face looks like an un-ironed shirt. You wonder---is it from stress? The kids? Too many libations the night before? You vow to get more sleep, take your vitamins and spend a fortune on miracle face creams. If spackle can fill the cracks in a wall, then an expensive wrinkle epoxy ought to do a damn fine job covering the crevices on your face. Unless, of course, your skin looks like a lunar landing strip. The good people at Lancome have yet to invent a facial epoxy that will fill cracks that deep.


     When I was in my mid-thirties, it was no coincidence that I sprouted my first wrinkle around the time my fourth child hit the Terrible Twos. A deep furrow formed across my brow, giving the impression that I was angry all the time. Or constipated. I began slathering my face nightly with rich emollients that promised to erase my worry lines (and the remnants of a youth spent poolside with a rum runner in one hand and a bottle of baby oil in the other). I was terrified that after all those years of sun tanning, I'd end up with a face that resembled a potato left too long in a microwave.

     Once I reached my forties, the deep grooves that bracketed my mouth were evidence of my inability to defy the laws of gravity. They formed parentheses when I smiled, acting as a dam to prevent the tsunami of cheek flesh from falling forward. As much as I tried to conceal the signs that I was, indeed, a middle-aged woman, the wrinkles on my forehead were Mother Nature's way of revealing my true age like the concentric circles inside a California Redwood.


     There were other unavoidable tell-tale signs that I was well past the carefree days of my youth. The so-called "laugh lines" around my eyes were not funny at all once the wrinkles reached my eyebrows and formed tributaries similar to those near the Mississippi river.

     Now that I've accepted the fact that I can no longer disguise my age behind expensive makeup and creams, I realize that facial wrinkles are the least of my problems. There are other parts on my body that the wrinkle cadets have invaded while I've been busy trying to prevent my face from looking like a peach pit. The other day, I noticed several rings around my neck. Four, to be exact. I now have a neck that resembles a Slinky. How have I missed this delicate area during my nightly ritual of slathering creams heavier than margarine on my face?

     And that's not the only section I've overlooked. I've got wrinkles on my hands now, too. The skin has become so thin there that my veins have popped up like the Appalachian Mountain range. There are also deep creases on my elbows and knee caps, for God's sake. My joints look like a wrinkled rhino's butt. "Excuse me, dear lady at the Lancome counter, do you have any rhino butt wrinkle cream in stock?"

     I prefer to think that the lines on my face show character, not the actual stress of aging or too many summers spent on a beach with a silver reflector beneath my chin. Undoubtedly, I'll be picking up a few more wrinkles along the way, but that's okay. These little creases are the merit badge I've earned from years of laughter and a life well lived.

     And no cream can take that away.

 
     It's that time again! For those of you new to my blog, once a month I participate in these "Fly On the Wall" group postings with 13 other bloggers. It's a chance to see what REALLY goes on behind the closed doors of all my writer friends. It's also an opportunity for me to share with you the nutty things and the odd conversations that go on in my own home.

     Why didn't someone warn me that once I hit the middle age years, my skin would lose its elasticity faster than a stretched-out rubber band? Wrinkles, I understand…but sagging? I didn't see that one coming.

     Despite the hours I spend at the gym to tone and firm what God gave me, the skin on my body still looks like an accordion. I'm pretty sure that if every crease was stretched out flat, I'd have enough skin to cover two people. There's even excess flesh on my back . If I could pull it up over my head, I'd have a skin hoodie for all those cold winter nights.

     I had to stop wearing tank tops years ago too, and not because my boobs look like they belong on a reality TV show called, "Gourds Gone South."  I chucked all my sleeveless shirts because they revealed the extra skin flaps under my arms, and I didn't want to be mistaken for a flying squirrel.

     The same goes for slinky dresses and tight jeans.  No amount of sit-ups or stomach crunches can erase the effects of birthing four children by c-section coupled with years of yo-yo dieting.  I doubt that I'll ever regain enough muscle tone in my waistline to wear a bathing suit in public again. I'm cursed with a deflated inner tube that's stuck around my middle like a droopy doughnut (minus the chocolate sprinkles). Sadly, the only part of my body that hasn't lost muscle tone is my uterus. That particular organ is about as tough as overcooked calamari.

    I need to combat these sagging parts one area at a time. Lately I've been Googling Brazilian butt lifts because I think a little booty enhancement would do wonders for my bottom, which is heading south at an alarming rate. If my fanny drops any lower, I'll be dusting the floors with it….and I'll be the first person to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records as a Human Swifter Butt.

     Spanx was invented for this very reason----to give the false impression that both my tummy and derriere are firm. Unfortunately, the tight fabric just pushes things further south until my thighs are rubbing together like mating seals. At this point in my life, I consider it pure luck that I haven't received a free, lifetime membership to Sea World.

     I've also noticed that my earlobes are beginning to hang a bit lower. It won't be long before all my dangly earrings are resting on my shoulder blades. But on the bright side, if my earlobes continue to droop, they can serve as wind flaps while I'm driving down the road. At least the grand kids won't have to worry about grandma running any red lights.

     The good news about my sagging skin? By the time I'm a senior citizen, I'll be able to tug on the drawstring of my skin hoodie to look twenty years younger.

      Or maybe just swim year 'round in the warm pools at Sea World.



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until the circle of life comes around and bites me in the ass with grand children.