I am, as the title says, at least approaching middle-age, if not already in it. I don't have time for it, today. So. Hear me whine.
My profile picture is 5 years old.
5. Years. Old.
That was me at 22, or maybe 23.
That girl--girl--looks very little like me.
Her hair is mostly brown
Brown, reddish, gold.
She doesn't even know what crows' feet are;
My mirror shows me all too clearly, now.
And I dye my hair, these days;
The silver shows through, though.
And I'm pretty sure it's all thinning...
Oh, the disgrace.
I'm getting too old to drink the night away;
I'd rather have a glass of wine with a decent meal.
And my feet can't handle 4-inch-heels anymore,
And my right hip throbs like a migraine the following day.
(Yes. My right hip.
That's just... what can I say?)
I look almost exactly like my mama,
But when Mama remarried at 33, she looked 25.
I'm 27 (or is that, already 33?)
The promises my genes made... oh how they lied!
I don't mean to complain, I just...
I was 19 before I started wearing make-up and tall shoes.
Older still, before I tried on my first short skirt.
10 years? 15, maybe? of being sexy, wouldn't have hurt.
But somehow, marriage/kids/adultery/divorce
have aged me much more than I previously surmised;
I suppose I've cried a lot; these last few years,
Haven't really followed the smoothest course.
The worst part is, "they're" right.
I can't go back to what I was before; I will never again be precocious.
I'm too old now, to astonish grown-ups with my wit,
My intuition, my single-minded focus.
So, just like that, I'm too old.
Too old to be what I was 2 years ago,
Too old to be what I was at 12.
I'm being crass, but... this quite simply blows.
Am I meant to cultivate wisdom, sagacity, now?
Draw a gentle sort of grace, from some hidden inner well?
Stop making dirty jokes? Carry myself like a lady?
Start masquerading as a Southern belle?
In spite of my myriad sins, my undoubted talent for evil,
I'm not a good enough liar for that.
And I'm not quite old enough to let myself go completely--
Stop washing, only wear muu muus, buy a dozen sweater-clad cats.
(Although, the thought appeals.
When I'm really, really old,
I'll be crazy, disgraceful,
Hell on wheels.)
For now, though, I think I'll stop calling myself a babe,
And I'll try--try--to hold my tongue, once in a while,
And I'll maybe... I dunno... get my nails done?
And instead of a sultry pout, I'll try a smile.
And I'll wear my glasses from time to time,
Even though they make me look like a robot.
And I'll change my profile picture, soon,
And never ever present myself as something that I'm not...
Or I'll just delete this now, and leave my profile as it is,
And hope I don't get caught.