My sex appeal has been down a quart. Trying feverishly to stay in my truth, I don’t wish to deny this. Hey, when you make skid marks into your 6th decade, you need to be honest with yourself. You’re not hot and 30 anymore. You’re a thin girl on a stick…a frozen hamburger patty languishing in the freezer. You still look good, better than most, but the reality is, you’re old, a fact to embrace rather than fight.
I have a friend who refuses to relinquish her reign watching her flirt from one man to another, and no, it’s not Camille who’s in a class all her own. This is more of a long term acquaintance whose cleavage tries my patience.
Part of me is envious, though loosely, not having her nerve. The other embarrassment she just doesn’t see is that a 35 year-old will usurp her every time. She arrives with boobs front and center. A forehead so filled with Botox it no longer moves. It’s like talking to a plate. Where I opt for flats she’s staggering in heels like an arthritic deer. I ask myself, what’s the better path to take? The Joan Collins, my vagina is as ready as any school girl’s heading the assembly line, or I’m enveloped in grace like all women who proudly have made it this far?
I have three friends not including Hicks who didn’t. It makes me take perpetual pause as I rub lotion into my tired limbs.
When someone says, hey…you’re really great looking without that shot of botulism that makes you look like you were frozen in time, I think…yes…what you’re seeing is real…the proof I’m still standing without synthetic enhancement. Those lines that make me resemble Idaho were earned, so rather than hide them, I’m thinking of hanging track lights so you can see them better.
If you still want me after that, I’m yours…but don’t expect me to pretend I’m anything but I am.
And for that, let’s give the little lady a great big round of applause.