“Time marches on and sooner or later you realize that it’s marchin’ across your face.”
Oh, Truvy. Truer words have never been spoken.
Whenever I hear someone my age say that they love being in their 30s, I’m pretty sure my facial expression says, “Have you just completely lost your mind?”
Because this aging thing is kind of depressing.
I have several friends who say that they loved turning 30 because they finally felt like people started taking them seriously.
For me, turning 30 was practically traumatic. I did not look forward to that birthday. I didn’t want to leave my 20s. I LOVED my 20s. And as for being taken seriously, I’ve never once uttered the words, “I want to be taken seriously.” I’m not kidding. Not once.
In my 20s, my skin still had the tautness of youth.
If I gained a few pounds, it came off within a couple of weeks without a lot of effort.
Gravity hadn’t set in.
Oh, how things have changed.
By the time we’re singing Christmas carols and decking our halls again, I will have turned – gasp – 40!
And please don’t tell me that 40 is the new 30, because I’ve already told you how I felt about 30.
I’m just not aging well, y’all.
The wrinkles? They are a-comin’. Mainly they’re coming in the form of crows’ feet. I can’t slather on enough Oil of Olay eye lifting serum.
Don’t even get me started on the signs of sun damage. Let’s just call it what it is. I’ve got AGE SPOTS! Folks of my grandmother’s generation would’ve called them liver spots. Oh, the horrors! I’ve been using Oil of Olay’s microderm abrasion two times a week for several months now, hoping it might help my skin look a little better.
A few weeks ago, Big Mama wrote that she uses Oil of Olay’s night time regenerist lotion. It says that it’s like waking up to a mini facelift each morning. I’m right there with you, Big Mama. I’ve been slapping that stuff on for months now. I’m not sure I look any different, though. I mean, no one has asked me if I’ve had any work done. But I’m ever hopeful.
This aging thing doesn’t just take its toll on the face, though.
For instance, I’m finding that I can’t sit down with, say, a box of Pop-Tarts without some pretty hefty consequences on my thighs. Not only would I have to go on a no-carb diet for about two months to counteract such a binge, but I’d have to practically live in a pair of Spanx throughout the entire bathing suit season. And that includes wearing said Spanx under a Miracle Suit.
About four years ago, I discovered that my knees had dropped. You know what I’m talking about, right? Because gravity does not pull only at the boobs and the hiney. For whatever reason, the knees — well, the skin just above the knees — drops. And it’s just depressing.
I remember my mother talking about this. Actually, I remember her laughing about it, because my mother has the wonderful ability to find humor in most everything. So I grew up thinking that all of these things would be somewhat amusing.
And they were.
Until the wrinkles and liver spots were staring back at me, and my boobs were sagging so low that they were hitting my loose-skinned knees. Not to mention the fact that my rear end was drooping to the point of whacking the back of my thighs when I walk.
Tell me. Does Oil of Olay make a cream for THAT?