I've been married for almost 11 years (some days it feels like it's been A LOT longer than that but that is clearly another topic for another day) during which I've delivered 4 beautiful, healthy, BIG baby boys (my smallest was 8 pounds). I've also become much more of a "girly-girl" than I was when I met my hubby at 19 (wow that was a long time ago). I was pretty simple- didn't use a lot of makeup, didn't color my hair, had no money so clothing was more of a necessity than a luxury- low maintenance, if you will. However, I've come into my own regarding the unique requirements of the female species. Basically, I've become more high maintenance. My hubby says I've gotten better with age.....kind of like a fine wine (I'm taking that as a compliment- what it really means is I wasn't as attractive when we met as he finds me now- or so that's how I am interpreting it). I am going to chalk it up to the simpler days in life.....when I didn't NEED to do as much to be cute (those were the days).
Now I look in the mirror and scare myself. I certainly hope my children aren't scared by the Crypt Keeper serving them breakfast! My hubby says I'm beautiful, but we all know he would like sex tonight (and future nights) so telling me that I'm getting scarier with age doesn't bode well for him. I am, regrettably, at that age where preventative and corrective maintenance and necessary repairs are no longer a suggestion acquired from a magazine article later to be disregarded. Quite the contrary, they are now necessary improvements essential to prevent hubby from trading me in for a younger model.
With that said, there is significant expense that accompanies this so-called required maintenance. I am currently suffering from the "Too many unexpected expenses prevent mommy from visiting optional (read-necessary) hair appointment" syndrome. In short, I have very visible roots. My hubby referred to me last night as a "half-n-half". You see, I am a blonde by nature, but somewhere in 30+ years....that changed. Now I must pay incredible amounts to restore my once youthful natural color. To my chagrin, I have also noticed my less-than-vibrant skin tone. Makeup isn't an option, it's a necessity. Freckles, sun spots, wrinkles and the like that comes with "aging" have all left their mark. Some say it's the sign of wisdom; I say it's the sign that I need to invest in some serious anti-aging arsenal and make an appointment with a local Botox professional asap!
Requirements of clothing have gotten more difficult and demanding now that I have had kiddos. Bras that define, lift and accentuate are a must- and they come with a hefty price. Apparel needs to fit and flatter the right curves in the right way, and all of a sudden, I am faced with the issue of "age appropriateness". Slimmers, shapers, smoothers....the likes of which I'd rather still be unaware.
As we travel downward, I would like to mention that I am completely NOT against the restoration and "plumpification" of my once perky, but now unresponsive, breasts. They now lack the ability to "stand at attention", if you will. I think breastfeeding should come with a warning label: "Constant and continual use will lead to shrinking, sagging, and possible deformation". We should have to sign a release before proceeding.
Stretch marks and skin that has lost its ability to "bounce back". Spider veins. Disappearing butt. Achy swollen feet. All lead me to believe that my trade-in value is decreasing by the moment. I am convinced that I am in need of my 100,000 mile overhaul. My "service engine soon" light demands attention!
So I ask , fellow woman, do we run from this challenge? Do we hide in the shadows? Or do we turn and face it head on? I choose to "fight the good fight" and employ any and all means possible to defend against the wrath of age. Salon visits I shall attend; creams I shall apply; peels I shall suffer through; going under the knife- the money I should only hope to find. I am prepared for this battle. And if I can't beat and overcome the maladies of age, then I will mask it every step of the way.