My Fountain of Youth has sprung a few leaks.
Since I decided that I would be forty-six instead of sixty-one, most everything has been going pretty well.
My hair is blonder and longer. I’m slimmer and fitter – what with zumba-ing my ass off, and yoga-ing off those flabby wings that my upper arms used to be. And I have an above-the-knee sundress and skinny jeans.
But I’ve got a few areas that are not cooperating.
Like my neck.
My idol, Nora Ephron, wrote a whole book about this problem, “I Feel Bad About My Neck.” And I sure do.
I never had much neck anyway (I blame it on my French-Canadian genes), but what little I had is now sliding down into my shoulders. And although my extra chin has shrunk some with my weight loss, what I have left is oddly – and oldly – loose.
Like my knuckles.
I’ve taken to using my expensive face cream on my hands. But no amount of miracle cream can hide the fact that my knuckles look like they belong to some ancient guy who chopped wood for a living. Gnarly. (And I’m talking to YOU too, TOES!)
Like my underpants.
When I bought skinny jeans (in bright teal blue, no less), I also bought sexy panties. Well, actually, I bought six pairs of my comfy big girl underpants (one size smaller) and one pair of sexy, skimpy bikini panties. Back when I was disco-ing the night away, I always wore bikinis – or even thongs. How did I wear those things? They are friggin’ uncomfortable!
Needless to say, I wear my six pairs of big girl underpants and then do a load of wash. My bikinis sit in the drawer. Right next to the strapless friggin’ uncomfortable bra.
Like my bedtime.
Back in my nightlife heyday, I could dance until 1:00 AM, and be in the office on time at eight the next morning. (almost fully functional, too). But no matter how young I think I’m looking right now. If I go to bed one minute after 10:00 PM, I might as well bring a pillow to work the next day.
I now have three pairs of skinny ankle jeans (black, faded wash, and the teal). And they look absolutely adorable with either my ballet flats or, if I need to be taller on any certain day, my platform wedge sandals.
But it’s September now, and I can already feel the nights cooling off. It’s Connecticut, for God’s sake. I’ve always suffered from popsicle toes. Now I know something very chilly is going to happen very soon in that four inches between the top of my ballet flats and the hem of my just-above-the-ankle jeans?
So I asked the girls at work. “Can I wear socks with these jeans?”
I think their answer may just indicate that they are a bit younger than I am trying to be.
After all, Michael Jackson was super cool with his socks in 1983. These girls can’t help it if they weren’t born yet.