Nothing bedevils a woman’s peace than the realization that she won’t be the woman she used to be in a matter of time. What woman deals with growing older with level-headed grace anyway? Not me. Not yet.
Even so, the milestone of reaching the huge five-O is set to arrive in a few years’ time.
Nope, no Botox nor cosmetic surgery in my future plans: You see, anything related to doctors, hospitals, clinics. needles petrify me. They do little to pep up a weary soul anyway. Maybe men could sail through the daunting waves by the setting sun, but women like me continue to contract apprehensions throughout the ‘ordeal’.
Aging is supposed to transport me to some larger thinking on compassion for my fellowmen, as well as to promote the rescuing of our planet for the succeeding generation. Pfft… how about letting me save myself first?
The ticking clock will soon plant itself against me in patterns that sidestep sensibility and protection. Soon soon, my ephemeral resplendence will be stripped off; Only the words are bound to remain for my redemption.
As the dysfunctional essence of maturity has become imminent — my boss, in a ribbing manner, started calling me “old girl.” Worse, I’ve begun taking it as a compliment.
I even trumped privacy in exchange for the opportunity to show the world, for the last time perhaps, that I have got it — before the dark birds of time finally snatch away whatever pleasant that’s still left in sight.
Still and all, I’m playing it out till the end — contending with the truth I am made of blood and thunder.
But please, please… spare me from the deep wrinkles and the impending crabbiness.