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As I type this, I will turn 50 in less than two months.
Unlike my good friend, Cheryl (our birthdays are one day apart…same year), I have no qualms with reaching the half century mark….at least, not yeat.
I don’t look 50, but I sure as hell feel it. When I wake up and attempt to get out of bed, I hear a cacophony of cracks and snaps and pops. I’m like this big peri-menopausal bowl of Rice Krispies.
The audibles that my body often call without my consent are only half the battle though. I have other symptoms of aging, too. I tend to forget things these days; my bladder control has all the effectiveness of Mexico’s militia and my skin is getting dryer. I eat Omega-3 vitamins like candy; I try to stay hydrated, yet my skin still looks like slightly buffered dry wall. Thank God it’s not manifesting itself in wrinkles, but the dryness is still there. Guess my once OPEC friendly oil glands aren’t producing like they used to.
I’ve tried putting vegetable oil on my face and hands–something about the emollients (or so I’ve heard) is good for the skin. Well, it is GREAT for your hands and arms. You can see a visible difference in just a few days of application. This ISN’T great for your face. I applied vegetable oil before going to sleep for two nights. You’d be surprised by how easy this stuff is to rub in. While my hands and arms were softer, the oil on my face, understandably served as nothing but zit fuel. Intellectually, I knew putting this on my face was wrong, wrong, wrong, but I was desperate. My face ended up looking like the back of a white chocolate Nestle’s crunch bar. One pimple was so big it had a Black Diamond trail on it’s north slope .
But I terminated the oily irrigation source and applied some of the same shit Jessica Simpson puts on her facial version of the Pyrenees and then a day or two later, I popped that huge pimple of mine with Vesuvian like results, which were satisfying.
Ever noticed that women are crazy for popping pimples and/or protruding cysts? Why is that? We don’t care what it is–blackheads, white heads; big, hulking bulges on the backs of our husbands or boyfriends. We pinch, they wince and we push out this mass of ugly that both enthralls and disgusts us. We push the bulk of the evil out from the depths of the dermis, then we scream and act horrified, but uultimately, we come back for round two. God forbid we should ever get our hands on a nice, juicy primed Brown Recluse spider bite.
So, dear readers, I face my 50th head on, but this noble, “hold-my chicken neck attached to my head high but I’m faking” bit, met with difficulty today. One of Satan’s spawn sent me a video just to remind me, not of my mortality, but that at age 50, I’m a hell of a lot closer to staring it in the face than I was a mere year ago.
Here’s the gist of this rambling nonsense: Cheryl and I both turn 50 this year….and so does Barbie. I wasn’t much of a doll girl, Cheryl was, she had Barbies, I didn’t. If I had dolls, they had to do something human-ish; they had to walk, talk, burp, cry or have an intact , fully operational Mattel engineered excretory system. My dolls had to produce foul Infamil-like toy doo-doo. Oh, I had imagination, I just dug the magic of technology in my play things.
Even so, I’m the same age as Barbie and I’ve realized that she, as a former pilot, gymnast, debutante, homemaker, model, attorney, vice cop, Madoff’s PR consultant, haberdasher, astronaut, mechanic, moil, stewardess, Teamster, toll booth worker, gay advocate, teacher, princess, game show host, post Civil War Carpetbagger, junkie/whore, doctor, nurse, TV personality, corporate mogul, movie star, AFL-CIO lobbyist, pool boy, a mail woman, politician and depression era wet nurse, has had a far, far more successful life than I have.
And she did these things…while consistently maintaining a 1.3″ waist…that Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene’d bitch!!!
So, watch this if you will and effort to feel empathy for my nearly 50-year old anguish at this sad, sad comparison.