Sunday, November 8, 2009
I've noticed something horrible happening. No, not in the world although my stomach hasn't stopped hurting since the Ft. Hood incident. There are no words for that. I can't articulate what I feel when I watch the news footage and imagine all those families (so many young families at that) destroyed by some extremely sick minded cretin. Not a man. A man would have a conscience. I hate that we can't just bottle up every ounce of crazy in the world and put it on a red shelf with a glowing barbed wire fence and 1 million rottweilers to alert us when it's starting to hop around or chip away at the drywall or show evidence of building shanks out of a nail trimmer and dental floss. No, this is a small scale something happening and just in my world. On my face more specifically. I think I have jowls. There, I said it. I am that vain to notice my face changing and I don't like it one bit. There are these little pockets forming next to my chin where nothing but face used to be and now there are jowls. It's like my cheekbones did a pike off the high dive and never swam back up the ladder but instead tread water in the deep end eternal. It's like a couple of snails are hibernating just below my frowning epidermis for the winter. It's like 10 thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. Thank you early nineties Alanis. It's like I am nearing 40. Seriously personal timeline, am I that old already? Is this why people consider plastic surgery? I always scoffed and poffed at the idea but holy eff am I having a hard long think about it now. Sorry kids, momma needs some new maxillofacial implants. No matter how short I chop off this hair the jowls remain. Yes, I got my hair cut. Again. I think I'm addicted to the process. It's so freeing and there's the shampooing, the conditioning, and the sweet sweet pitter patter of old hair falling on the nylon tunic. It helps that the salon girl is quirky adorable and I listen to her stories of dating, clubbing, and sleeping in like it's a naughty HBO movie I somehow got even though we don't get HBO. Envy? No, I don't want that time of not knowing what he's thinking or should I call (I shouldn't have) or if I passed that test on King Lear. I have graduated to jowls and no amount of hair cutting will make me wish to press repeat on that particular era of my life. I've earned the right to be here. Just can't believe "here" means my face is falling down which in turn makes any family portrait a complete and utter nightmare for all involved. I used to worry about my double chin. Even when I was 118 pounds soaking wet I worried about some freaking phantom "double chin" on my face. Now? There are these very real and tattling little numbers I have to hide by somehow tilting my chin toward the sky and cocking my head like the RCA dog just so we don't end up with handsome Marine, cute toddler, sweet baby, and HOLYMOTHEROFALLTHINGSREPULSIVE me who has ruined yet another perfectly fine family portrait. What the hell, maybe it's time to break out the big guns. The big botox filled injectable guns. No, I won't do that no matter how much English bulldog I may represent. I am going to force myself to suck it up, do 200 more sit ups daily (how about I leave out the word "more" and start with putting on gym socks, liar liar.) and stop crying in my gravity soup. I will grow old gracefully. As soon as I stop listening to this Paramor song.