The insecurities of aging

Yes, I’m going there.  Why?  Because, honestly, if this “blog” is to be anything more than trite, I have to tell it like it is. How else is it (am I) going to be different than anything else on this vast, deep, and growing thing we call the internet?

I told you I was thinking about where this blog is going to go.  And sure, I plan to continue with my fiction and poetry.  But, the personal writing has to be more than just something to turn a crowd on.  I can’t just write for my husband (though, I do love to, honey).  I can’t just write for people I am trying to seduce (though my words are one of my most potent aphrodisiacs – which, oddly, and sadly, seem to flow only from a distance and in the comfort of my empty living room).

No, I have to actually do what my subtitle says I am trying to do….navigate my inner landscape.  Gag.  Really, it sounds cliche.  Or maybe too much like I should be lying on a red velvet couch baring all (and I don’t mean that in the sexual context).

So, here it is.

I’ve had several readers, including my husband, say that the joy of reading a blog like this is that men are offered a very rare glimpse into the female psyche.  It’s sort of sad that the way they get this is by reading the blog of some woman who could be anyone, living anywhere.  Hell, I could be lying for all you know.

But, I’m not.

And, I’m not giving you enough.

No…I’m giving you “safe”.  I’m giving you what I’m comfortable giving you.

I think that needs to change.  Gradually.  But, it needs to…if I plan to stand out from the crowd.  And really, I’m doing it for more than that.  I think I am doing it more for me.  But, I suppose that the exhibitionist quality of it is motivating.  What can I say…write out loud…that shocks me?  Or embarrasses me?  Or makes me uncomfortable?  Because that’s when I know I am being honest.

And for my first feat?  Let’s talk about my body.  What I like and what I don’t.  Because, I’m pretty sure I’m a lot like other women in the run down I’m about to do.

And since I’m on glass three of my $5 dollar bottle of crap red wine, sitting on the couch, surrounded by clutter, dressed in a sundress – dried sweat making my skin sticky and salty, my hair up in a clip, quite aware of my inadequacies in the “sexy” department:  I’m going to start with what I like.

My eyes are a very distinct clear blue-green.  Depending on my mood or clothing, they change.  Several years ago, I got a wild hair and decided to try blue contacts.  I wore them for a week and then gave up.  They took away the soul of my eyes….made them flat and common.

My lips are that perfect shape for lipstick.  Perfect points.  Full and feminine.  Strangely, I have my father to thank for these.

My fingernails.  Wouldn’t need a French manicure any day of the week.  Small, uniform, perfectly shaped, pink with white tips.  I remember my mother used to tell my I’d have ugly nails if I kept biting them.  I love it when she’s wrong.

My pale complexion (which, though not perfect, is easy to deal with and looks good most days…even without make-up).

Now the things I don’t love:

My stretch marks (they seem to be popping up everywhere these days), my cellulite, my “mom belly”, my inner thighs, my mousy brown hair that is now turning gray regardless of how much I color, my neck (which has begun to lose its tightness), my bikini line (I swear, I’ve tried everything to keep it under control and it betrays me by rashing up, multiplying ingrown hairs, and itching like fricking mad when I shave it).  My “spare tire” (which only shows when I’m wearing clothes), and the fact that I can’t seem to lose a pound now that I’m over 35, even if I eat less and move more, like I know I’m supposed to.  I jog 3 miles 3 times a week, do cardio and weights and yoga, and all it does is keep me from getting fatter (most of the time).

It really isn’t that I don’t feel sexy.  Most of the time, I do.  Or at least I know I have to ability to.  It is hard, as a woman (maybe it is for men, too), to keep from dwelling on my aging form, though.  Especially, when I’m as open with my husband about what we find attractive in others.  Sure I find younger men hot.  And likewise, why wouldn’t I expect him to find younger women hot.  And I find him hot…even though he doesn’t look like those younger men.  So why would I have a hard time believing he finds me hot?  Actually, I don’t.  He does a lovely job of proving it to me on a regular basis.  But, I think there is something primal about envying the young.  I do not look like I once did.

Do I mourn my lost figure?  To a degree, I suppose.  But, I can say that even with that figure, I never had sex then like I have now.  That came with time and knowing myself a hell of lot better than I used to.  I guess it’s a give and take then.  Sure, I wish I looked 25 and could have sex like I do now.  Not gonna happen, though.  And I’m not getting any younger.

Funny thing…the other day I was complaining about the white streaks beginning to take up residence in my hair and that I needed to make an appointment to have it colored.  My husband said, “Just don’t…stop coloring…let it go.”

Why was I shocked by this?  I love him.  He loves me.  Why would I feel that it’s weird he would find me sexy even with graying hair?

I think women (or many of us) take things too personally and too far.  For example, and to clarify the hair color confusion, he likes all colors.  For awhile now, he’s encouraged my transition to blond.  Further and further.  But, he also loves red.  Real red.  And so, I’ve indulged.  I prefer brunette.  Why would I go blonde when I prefer brunette?  Because he thinks it’s sexy.  Dumb, I know.  Have I told him this?  No.  (Guess he’s gonna find out, though).  But, gray?  Ummmm…maybe on men, yes.  Distinguished.  Aristocratic.  On women?  Well, it just makes us feel old.

And another moment in my “so this is me getting older, huh” journey:  having sex in broad daylight, atop my husband, leaning forward, I glance under my arm to watch my hips undulate and I notice (*gasp*) that my belly is not just “a belly”, it’s actually sagging forward on the sides…a bit of cellulite mixed in for good measure.  Good, fucking Christ (sorry to offend)!  I could hardly get my rocks off, and it took me days to figure out and admit why I was then in a crappy mood for the rest of the day.

And that’s when it hit me.  I’m terribly insecure about getting older.  So, here is my toast to beautiful older women.  May I follow (even just marginally) in your footsteps and accept my changing form as gracefully (if unwillingly) as you have done (and with probably just as much insecurity as the rest of us…if not more).








  • Twisted Angel

    Oh my baby belly that won't go away. Even when I lost tons of weight with my last one due to a gall bladder dying a slow and painfully puking filled death. My boobs keep me from ever getting too small for some reason they won't budge when I do lose weight. I do know all of this and more.. I think you are beautiful as well.

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