Growing Old is a Bitch

Who are these 22-year-olds selling us anti-ageing cream? Seriously? Are we buying into that? Evidently, and in this economic crunch when many of us are having problems coming up with the mortgage/rent and utility bill, we have no problem dropping 80 bucks for an itty-bitty vial of miracle wrinkle remover cream. I guess we figure that if we go to the poorhouse, we want to make damn sure we look good doing it.

They say that vanity is our worst vice. I beg to differ. While I agree that we need to have our priorities in check, I see no sin in trying to preserve what we have left. And in my case, it’s not a whole lot. At 57, my body is not my friend. It’s considerably mushier; a lot more freckled, and rarely works to peak capacity. This is my new reality and dealing with it is in no way a cake walk.

I now understand the true meaning to the term Tough Old Broad.  I’m okay being tough on the inside as long as I look soft, supple and ever so approachable on the outside. And if buying that $80 jar of cream will calm my nerves and sooth my wrinkles, well, I say have at it. Let me live in my make believe world where I’m 25 pounds lighter, my breasts are still perky and I can look face down without looking like a Shar-Pei puppy.  Yup, growing old is a bitch.  Pass the anti-ageing cream.