i spend much too much time worrying about my appearance. to look at me, you wouldn’t think that’s the case, because i do very little with my hair, never wear makeup and schlubb around in comfortable and less-than-flattering clothes when i’m not at work. for the past several years, i have become convinced that i am mostly invisible, so i spend very little time on myself. i do my best to fly under the fashion radar and am actually damn good at it. check my closet.
not yet at the alfred dunner stage, i’m far from the forever 21, h & m, american apparel or abercrombie stage. come to think of it, even when i was the age that would shop at those places, i would have been at jcpenney or sears. so, now you can maybe get a mental image of my fashion prowess.
what i spend my time obsessing over is my body. i swear, every morning i get up and wonder if i’ll have the discipline to exercise, eat healthy, control myself. every morning. i consider myself an average sized woman, although today’s average is much different than the average i’m using from 1970. not petite, not waifish, not lithe. just average. i know that i should be content with average, be thankful for having an average, healthy body, and i suppose most of the time i am, but there is still a nugget of that young, tending-to-chubby girl whispering to me every day. lose weight. exercise more. look better. surprise your friends.
it is such a waste of time, though, isn’t it? especially now, when i’m at the cusp of 60, what the hell do i expect i can change? my hormones are gone, hair is sprouting out of strange places and disappearing from others, my metabolism is non-existent, and (see first paragraph) i’m invisible anyway. so who the hell cares? or more accurately, why the hell do i care so much about it?