Menopausal Screeds

Sunday, February 22, 2004

During the week, I wrestle my breasts off my waistline and return them to my chest under the restraints of underwires, put on the control-top, support pantyhose to pull up the creeping cellulite off my ankles and return it to my butt where it belongs, trowel on industrial strength foundation to fill in the Grand Canyons that have cropped up on my face, and pull out a fresh crop of albino hairs that sprung up overnight until I have the time to do a color restoration just to make myself presentable to the world. I can’t wait for the day to end so that I can get home and peel off these pretenses of my youth.

I’ve earned every one of these wrinkles; damn it, why should I have to cover them up? My tummy was flat prior to pregnancy, isn’t that good enough? The road map developing on my legs is because I’ve walked a lot of miles in a lot of shoes throughout my life, shouldn’t they be like medals of honor instead of cursed signs of my lack of youth?

I’m mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore. Weekends are hereby declared pretense free zones. Oh and honey, the rosy glow in my cheeks is just another damn hot flash roasting me from inside out. Can you turn on the fan? Thank you. I’m sorry but when I said, “Grow old with me, the best is yet to come” I didn’t know it would turn out like this.