I keep wondering at what age a person is supposed to give up on youth. I don’t mean that young at heart feeling. I also don’t mean that notion that you’re invincible. What I mean is simply, youth. I suppose more fairly, the trappings of youth.
There was a time when my hips were curvy, my butt was round, my boobs were small and my hair was brown. I loved that time. I loved wearing low cut jeans and tight tops and I dyed my hair for fun. When it was blonde, that was my favorite.
And I would go out dancing. And I didn’t care if I got drunk. And there were plenty more times that I didn’t than when I did. And I was a good dancer. And I could move well. And I was good at having sex. And sex was fun. And it was with someone different a lot of the time. And I was usually sober.
So when I look back on those times why do I see it all compartmentalized into this little box of memories that I feel some morbid obligation to let go of now that I am not in the youth anymore?
Now I have extra weight on my hips. Now I can’t get low rise jeans to look right under my muffin top. Now I have a saggy butt. Now my boobs are two cup sizes bigger. Now all my tops are tight by accident. Now I dye my hair to cover the gray.
I still love to dance. And drink. And I still dance pretty well. I think. I haven’t been to a club in about six years. Young people go to clubs. Or single people. Or hot people. I am none of those things. Not in youth. Cute perhaps, especially every six weeks after the dye job. Not single. And my husband hates to dance.
He can though. He just doesn’t like to do it. Because he has the same issue as me. He misses not caring. He misses youth. And we have sex. And it’s fun. But it isn’t new. It isn’t different people. Well maybe for him. I never know which personality might show up on any given day.
Sucks to be Matt.
And I am overly influenced by what I see and what I read and what I listen to and what I feel and what I experience.
And I’m okay with that but I feel tired and cranky a lot. And I really dislike being tired. Or cranky. I guess what I see and read and hear is exhausted and grouchy.
Sucks to be me.
And every six weeks when I dye my hair I sigh because it is such a bullshit waste of time. In six more weeks I have to do it again. And I do because I miss youth. I miss a wrinkle free face. I miss fresh clean slates. I miss perky bum cheeks and hands with smooth skin.
Mine and my husband’s. But he’s still cute. But youth has left us both. Replaced by experience. Replaced by some kind of wisdom. And nothing is surprising like you don’t like artichokes. And nothing is awful like subscribing to different religious philosophies.
So do I just give up on caring about the loss of youth and embrace the gray, the sag, the elastic waist jeans, simply because I’m too tired to give a crap different?
I like to look good. Would I look any less good with a full head of gray hair and boobs that point in different directions? Would the world notice or only me? Aren’t I the one who matters? My positive self image should be the important part of the equation. Right?
So I still get dinner out at restaurants. And I still work out. And I still have sex. And I still laugh at comedy. And cry at tragedy. Sometimes.
And kiss Matt before we go to sleep. And put on make up to go to the grocery store. And I still try on cute outfits. And they don’t fit over my hips. And they make my butt look funny.
But I’m not ready to wear elastic waist jeans. Yet.