Younger than springtime--I'm not. A few observations noted in the harsh light of day.

All winter while I was tucked into turtlenecks and wrapped in scarves, the skin on my chest was quietly adopting that thin tissue paper look. I’m on my way to looking like a poorly wrapped package.

Looking at my neck, face, upper arms, I realize my flesh is steadily loosening its grip from my body. Collagen-wrecking gremlins are haunting my days and nights. Really, I try not to think that aging is dying in slow motion but it is. This is like Pirates of the Caribbean. I have this sense that my flesh is moving farther and farther from my bones! I fear I'll one day have to wrap myself in duct tape to keep everything where it belongs. 

When I cross my legs and my pants’ leg rides up, I get a glimpse of calves that look like frozen chicken parts—pale, plucked, purplish. Noooooo! I don’t want to look like a Perdue pinup. Where’s the smooth, poreless skin of yesterday? If I’m going to morph into an “old bag,” I’d prefer my aging skin have the lovely warm patina of a classic Coach purse.

All these changes are clearly visible to me because I’ve become a person with reading glasses perpetually perched halfway down my nose. I have multiple pairs scattered around the house, even a pair attached to a dorky neck chain. I have some with wire frames and some with plastic frames, including a pair with a square shape and Burberry plaid design. The former make me feel like a granny, the latter, chosen to be fun and hip, make me look like Woody Allen—a dirty old man. What was I thinking! GAH!

Maybe I should abandon my glasses and enjoy a softer, kinder view, a new outlook. Blur the edges a bit. Hide the imperfections by losing the details. Focus on the big picture and age (gulp) gracefully.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 23, 2006