When I was younger I used to be able to put on whatever I left on the chair from the night before, throw a brush through my hair and look half way presentable. Much to my dislike, those days are gone. Unfortunately, old habits are hard to break, and I am a creature of habit. So, once again I threw on my old black pants from four years ago, an orange tee shirt with holes from wear around the seam, a pair of flip flops and out the door I ran. For better or for worse, I rarely look in a mirror.
Today I should have.
I have always admired those aging natural beauties. Hoped to be just like them when my time came. But much to my chagrin two problems arise. Problem #1: I don’t look anything like an aging beauty. I look more like a tired, middle-aged suburbanite who has spent too much time in the sun. Problem #2: This issue has come up way too soon.
I should go to the plastic surgeon for a laser peel or dermabrasion or whatever is trendy this week…but in all honesty I am just too scared. I don’t like to go to doctors, they terrify me. As I age, I know going to the doctor more and more often will be inevitable, but I dread this with every fiber left in my body. So what are my options? Make-up.
I actually bought some last week. But of course today, I forgot to use it. I have to remember the base and blush, lipstick and mascara. I should have been born a boy.
Instead I have on my sunglasses to hide me from the world.
Of course, it is right after Labor Day and everyone is back in town. All the other Moms sport cute hairdos, adorable tennis gear, or sophisticated slacks with matching shoes and handbags. Every place I stop I run into someone I know. I don’t think much of this until I happened to catch a glance of myself in the mirror. Holy shit. I look like shit. Like old shit. Even worse, like old, tired shit. There is nothing natural about my beauty. My hair needs to be colored and cut. My outfit is an embarrassment. Cute ran out many years ago and I am left with something from one of my father’s old horror films.
I promise myself to try harder.
So here lies the dilemma. I am starving and want to go to the cute little Boulange in Mill Valley for a bite to eat, but I am bound to run into people I know. For the first time in my life, I actually chickened out. I have always enjoyed eating alone. But today I couldn’t for fear of being seen by one of my well-put together acquaintances. Even those jocks that I know, who have just run ten miles look better than me.
So I do what every middle-aged starving woman would do. I drove right into the drive-thru at McDonalds and grabbed myself a cheeseburger.
I don’t regret the calories. I don’t even regret the lack of nutrition. What I regret is not being able to throw on my oldest and ugliest clothing and still manage to look cute.
Cute takes work now and I may not be up to the challenge.
But then again, who’s really looking at me anyway?