Aging is a funny old thing huh?
One day you look around an realise that you’re the oldest one at the party. And it’s cool, you can get in to it, being the ‘older’ one and all that jazz…. After about your third whisky you start giving out unsolicited advice to anyone that will listen about Saturn Returns and “look, you’ll understand when your 30…..” rants.
Since getting into my 30’s, I’ve had hair popping up in the most mysterious of places, some hidden, some setting up camp on my chin overnight. I mean I like witches and all, I have a few witchy friends and I see myself as a bit of a witch, but hairs growing out of my chin at 35…. Hold up. I thought I was signing up to that later in life….
In saying that I haven’t actually plucked the hair out… I don’t have the heart to, I mean maybe they’re supposed to grow there, like your body needs it to be there for some big picture unbeknownst to us? I gotta tell you I secretly do take some sort of pleasure in stroking the hairs on my chin, lost in thought, stroking as if it was an actual beard, kinda like my father does with his beard… Freud anyone??
And have you ever had that feeling when your Amazon package arrives after a lonely late night scroll party on Instagram (when the ads actually work) and like a zombie you drop some big cash on some linen dress but the dress doesn’t fit or look any good on you because the model in the advert is a sweet 16, never been kissed, pre-pubescent country gal with no hips and no ass and no nothing, and you quit smoking recently and accidently put on 5 kgs but you forgot that minor detail when you ordered the dress because you were a little high so you ordered a size 10 but now you’re a size 12 and linen doesn’t stretch and they don’t do exchanges and you wanna scream because you’re screwed.
Only woman squeeze into things that don’t quite fit them. Ever squeezed into a dress that needs 2 people to close the zip and you go to the party and look great but you can’t eat cause the zip will bust, and there’s a full tub of freshly shucked oysters there, and you can’t eat them, so you silently wail. Or ever bought clothes a size to small and justify it with the idealistic belief that I WILL do those workouts and I WILL use that gym pass and WORK religiously at getting that unattainable body that everyone on Instagram seems to have but no one in real life that you actually know has.
But hey that’s propaganda baby.
And it’s all a bit bullshit. Like when will we celebrate the aging of women, the gracefulness the softness the wisdom and the wonder of women? The Silver fox, gracious, make you cake and tea women. The assertive, zero fucks, hire a cleaner, I know what I want women. Don’t forget that every single one of us pretty much came out of a vagina? Remember where you came from.
And can I just say what the hell is wrong with a little cellulite, I mean apart from the chaffing, which a real thing, cellulite is fine, its normal, its cake and cheese mother fuckers, all cake and cheese. I mean, what are we meant to do? Not eat the cake and cheese?
They got us all wrapped up in a tizzy – they got us Primping, and preening, and curling, and sucking, and waxing, and waning, and cutting, and grooming, and fixing, and fussing and spending big bucks on snake oil medicines and silicone implants. And what the fuck for? To become young again, to be eternally youthful. I mean to be honest in my youth I was an insecure, blabber mouth, bong smoking, questionably dressed, naïve fresh faced and none the wiser little raver kid.. and now I got half-moons under my eyes, a little cellulite, pain in my joints, silver lightning in my hair, hangovers for days. But god damn I’m in my prime baby my god damn prime. Don’t you know? I got shit to talk about now. I know things. I listen to 99% invisible. Roman Mars forever.