Boobs! OMG, I’m talking about boobs! Again with the boobs!
Just kidding. I’m not really talking about boobs. Well, not JUST boobs, anyway. That eternal Quest for Youth. And why it’s stupid.
Quest for Youth via Facial Work
I have a giant mole above my eye. It needs to be removed, and I have set an appointment more than once to have it done, but I keep canceling. Not because I’m scared or emotional over it. I just keep having other, more important things to worry about. But soon I’m going to take care of it. Why? Not because I’m worried about my looks. I have two reasons:
1. It gets irritable, so I really should have it biopsied, to ensure all is well.
2. My daughter is terrified that her adorable little freckles will blossom into giant moles. She hates it. So… it’s got to go.
One reason I’m able to so easily put it off, though, is because it will have to be done by a plastic surgeon. My family doctor has performed many removals, with nary an issue, but when it comes to the face, he outsources. His words:
“I don’t mess with the face, man.”
Can’t say I blame him for being hands-off about it. People are so weird about their looks. Which is just silly, because do you really want to attract a partner based even remotely on appearances? If yes, I want to know how that’s working out for you. Tell me your happiness ratio. I also want to know your level of self-confidence.
So in getting my mole whacked, I will have to go sit in a waiting room filled with gorgeous women who are spending ridiculous amounts of money to try and look even MORE gorgeous. It just seems like I have better things to do with my time than share a second of it with tragically materialistic women. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ll be sure to report back after I follow through, and tell you all about the experience.
As for the rest of my face, a bit of mascara does me fine, and the rest will just have to deal with the natural aging process. I hear laugh lines are sexy. Or at least, that’s what I WANT to hear, and my hubz doesn’t argue. Bless his sweet soul.
I don’t get those women who get their skin stretched so they can look a few years younger. Looking younger is over-rated. Why not look and act your actual age, and relish the fact that you’ve managed to outrun the clock?
Quest for Youth via Body Reconstruction
When I first came to Ohio in 2000, I was a size six. I had always been a runner and worked on and off to stay fit. I didn’t watch my diet very closely, but I never ate too horribly… except on occasion. And then the occasions became more regular. SHIT.
I started to gain weight, and with various emotional and health issues, just never stopped. I’m not gigantoid, but I’m far from the size six my hubz knew me to be when I originally moved here. What’s nice is this: We were friends while I was in decent shape. We didn’t “hook up” until after I’d already gained the weight. So it wasn’t like I caught him and then “let myself go”. He already knew what he was getting. That’s love right there.
Now that I’m at a better place in life, I’m struggling to get the extra pounds off. My son is a great inspiration, because he is Mr. Healthy USA. Seriously. The dude works out every day, runs several miles on a regular basis, never drinks pop, avoids sweets, eats his fruits and veggies. He’s studying to become a physical therapist. The sporty kind. Because he is very athletic and has massive amounts of personal experience with messed up bones and muscles.
One day, on a whim, he decided to go for a lengthy run, and came back THIRTEEN MILES later. While I struggle to jog-walk-jog even a mere two miles. I told him I was going to jump off a cliff.
Where am I going with all this? Working out sucks. It’s a struggle. Not just physically, but mentally. I don’t mind the treadmill while I’m on it — actually, I *LOVE* it once I start, because I watch a show on my iPod via Netflix and the time just melts away — but showing up is a real problem for me.
Which, ironically enough, is one of my mottoes:
I wonder what I would do without such supportive family members. Without a form of entertainment. Without a treadmill. Without the slightest inclination to give a shit.
And what if, on top of all that, I had medical issues preventing the weight loss? (Thank goodness this isn’t an issue for me!) Would I consider some kind of tummy-tucking, stomach-stapling surgical procedure? Would I get liposuction done?
You know, I think the answer to these questions is, YES. But I don’t think it would be out of vanity, or a wish to look better. I think it would be to take a short-cut back to “start” so I could have a fresh beginning… one I’d be more likely to maintain the second time around. Hopefully. Maybe I’d still indulge in Cool Ranch Doritos, though. Who knows?
But I’m hearing about young women who weigh nowhere NEAR what I weigh, crying about a mere twenty extra pounds, and going under the knife. What the fuck is wrong with a girl who can’t live with herself at 140 pounds? Who put into her head that she is such an ugly, fat fuck that she needs surgery to be anywhere close to “pretty”? I’d like to punch that asshole in the nose. Because 140 pounds is perfectly normal. It’s fine. It’s the least of your worries. There is so much more important crap out there to worry over. Things like book stores closing down, rising gas prices, fracking, and the newest round of swine flu.
Quest for Youth via Decorations
I am a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. Actually, that’s a dressed-up lie. I’m a sweat pants and sweater kind of girl. I never curl my hair, and sometimes I don’t even brush it before throwing it into a pony tail. My nails don’t grow beyond the length of my finger tips, and are seldom polished. You’ll find me without makeup more often than not. And I only own a couple pairs of shoes, all at least two years old.
Jewelry is wasted on me because I don’t dress up often enough to warrant such pretties, beyond the obligatory wedding band set, as well as a birthstone ring I got for my 16th birthday. I have a sticky-note posted next to the bathroom mirror:
“Don’t forget to wear earrings the morning of the court hearing!”
(Wouldn’t want to look too “Wednesday Addams-ish”) *
Because it makes me feel like the world will think I’m grown up, and like I’m actually dressed appropriately, whatever THAT means. But otherwise? Fuck it. I’m not going to waste a second, or a dollar, on shit that doesn’t matter. I spent my entire high school life worrying what others think, wishing I had a better wardrobe, brokenhearted that others looked so “cool” while I just never quite managed to pull it off.
What I find sad is this:
Most women my age are still shopping for clothes at the mall. They are still worried about appearances. They compare diamond sizes, and talk about where they bought their billion-dollar purses or shoes. It’s the stupidest thing I ever saw. Women my age somehow didn’t grow up and get over that whole high school comparison thing. I refuse to feel bad that I don’t want to play that game. If that makes me a dressed-down, elitist snob, so be it. It’s a mantle I wear well.
My daughter hates having her hair brushed. I don’t know if she has a soft scalp or what. All I know is, I’m picking my battles, and brushed hair just ain’t at the top of shit that matters. She’s gotten better at wearing hairbands to keep strands out of her face, and I find I am pleased. Beyond that… fuck it. Seriously.
Some day appearances are going to matter to her. She was already dismayed at a get-together to watch movies when she was the only girl with a Pixar Cars sleeping bag, while all the other kids had Disney Princesses, Barbies, Tinkerbell Fairies, or other, more girlie themes. So it’s not far off. For now, I’m enjoying that she doesn’t seem to care overly much about her looks.
Her style of dress reflects this, too. Kid has no sense of color schemes. Yesterday, she paired a bright red, Ohio State t-shirt with a hot pink skirt. And purple socks with monkeys on them. My eyes flew open wide at this spectacle, and she defiantly challenged me, “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
I’m quick. “I didn’t know you found your missing sock. Awesome, baby!”
I’m not quite sure what to make of her clothing style, or lack thereof, but I hope she manages to keep her “fuck it” attitude a bit longer. I like that she is happy with who she is, regardless of what she’s wearing. And I wish more women had that outlook.
Quest for Youth via Attitude
There is a new social club out there with which I am completely unimpressed. It’s the Mrs. Jones homeroom volunteer, white picket fence, picture taking, church going, perfect life achiever, club. I’m so glad NOT to be a member. I can’t imagine how hard it is to keep up those appearances. I mean, just painting my fence white instead of its current state of cruddy-brown would be more effort than I would ever care to expend.
As for the portrait montage… Do you recall a time when we actually had to REMEMBER what the faces of our children looked like? I know people who literally spend thousands, on a regular basis, for ultra awesome photos. And don’t get me wrong, they look great. But really? THAT is where you spend all your dollars? Seems a bit… fake-ish to me. Like, putting on airs. We get annual school pics, and I take the occasional snap of my kids on birthdays or if I think of my camera (which is hardly ever), but beyond that… dude, we still haven’t even gone for a family photo yet. The hubz and I have been married over five years now. It’s just not a priority for us.
People our age are so caught up in the Quest for Youth. Why? What is so great about looking young? Young means IMMATURE. Young means NOT FULLY GROWN. Young means UNDEVELOPED. Why on earth would that be a goal?
Throughout the money of August 2012, my dear friend Aaron @dadblunders and I are doing a dry run of the Blogging From A to Z Challenge. This past April was my first official participation in such activity, and I had no idea what I was doing. No theme, no forethought, purely spur-of-the-moment. This time around, I have a plan. Join the fun!
For this event, I am engaging in a month of controversy. Consider yourself forewarned.
*Footnote – This was an inside joke… And for those who know: REALLY? I mean… Just wow…