I caught a reflective glimpse of my grandmother a few days ago and was mortified. Not because I feared some incorporeal apparition had appeared from some ethereal realm for a nether world visit, nor that some chemical remnant from my forgotten “groovin’ days” had disentangled itself from the depths of my cranium. Nay, nay, my friends. Not so melodramatic nor sensational. I was looking at a wrinkled, aged, and wizened face – one that I adored as a child – one that I believed rose and set the sun each day. Yet this grandma face depressed the hell out of me because it was a mirrored reflection; yes, mine.
I decide right then and there to take command! I am bound and determined not to age! Oh, wait. I want to age – the alternative is unthinkable. I just don’t want to look aged. The term ‘aged’ refers to old smelly cheese or properly hung beef or carefully stored wine. I don’t want to be aged. I want the talk behind my back to jealously regard how great I look! I’m thinking to myself “self, you have got to get more exercise and take better care of your body”. Hence, I make the life altering decision to take up jogging again. Again? As if there were ever a time in my life I had actually committed to jogging that lasted more than a few heartfelt attempts? This time I will take it serious. Really!
I start out slowly. A nice comfortable walk. Stop and smell the flowers. Watch the children play. Pet the neighbor’s dog. Beam at those passing by. Trip the skinny bitch in the skimpy jogging suit running past. I’m cool. This isn’t so difficult. Hell, I’m not at all in too bad of shape. In fact, I’ll just step it up a bit by jogging across the street at this 4-way stop so my meandering pace doesn’t slow down traffic. I’ll impress all those lazy people in their cars. Driving rather than walking. Hrmph! I smile and take off. By mid-lane I have glued the grin on my face so it appears I am in nirvana. As I reach the opposite side of the street the realization hits me that perhaps I don’t want to be old aged. If it hurts this damn bad at 46, I’m almost positive that 86 ain’t gonna feel any better. Did you know that sucking in air at 400 psi changes weather patterns in southeast Malaysia? And I did it with a smile.
Gravity won. Parts jiggle when I jog. I digress. What I am doing cannot possibly be called ‘jogging’. Gimps move faster. Maybe it should be called ‘toddling’ or ‘jalking’ or ‘wogging’. Jogging alludes to an impression of ability; health; fitness. I jog . I am a jogger . It conjures up visions of youth and beauty and notions of vigor and energy. There is nothing exotic about a frumpy middle aged woman gasping and wheezing down the street. With bugs between her teeth because she’ll be damned if she won’t smile.
I decide my previously measured distance may have been a bit too aggressive and conclude to reduce the path to a manageable expanse. Hence, I turn around and walk back across the street. I try to hurry before the ambulance shows up so I don’t have to explain that, no, I don’t require CPR and, why yes, this is my normal breathing pattern.
I do know God has a sense of humor. I just don’t quite get the point of why he found it amusing to give me chin whiskers when I’m in the throws of developing a beautiful set of facial crevices. Yesterday morning I was admiring my reflection in my palm pilot when, much to my dismay, I became aware that the left side of my face has developed a plentiful array of “smile lines” whereas the right side is noticeably less creased. Not to worry, though, as I believe I have the remedy. For the next year or so I will only smile from one side of my face. I know it’s not all that attractive, and makes me appear a bit lopsided, something akin to a left-sided stroke; however, in the case of wrinkles all things should be equal.
And by the way, please tell me what is so damn funny about the squirts? I sneeze, I squirt. I jump off a curb, I squirt. I bang my hip into a corner, I squirt. Where is the humor? Oh yes, and the reason I bang my hip into the corner is due to the fact I can’t see where I’m going. I wear contacts to see far away, glasses to see up close, and have realized the conspiracy to continually make type print smaller and smaller. It was an amusing day when I put my contacts in backwards and subsequently put on my glasses because I couldn’t see. Fearing I had developed glaucoma over night I explained this latest dilemma to my vision specialist. He suggested counseling. According to him it wasn’t my eyes that needed examining.
I do believe in cheap sunglasses. The $3 pair I own has remained in my possession for several years (someone please explain why they are called a “pair” of sunglasses). Did you ever wear 3-d glasses as a kid? Do you even remember wearing 3-d glasses on any occasion? Do you recall how you may have felt a little ‘woozy’, a tad ‘queasy’ from looking around in them too long? Is there a point to this babble? Why, yes there is. One fine spring day I had securely placed my sunglasses upon my face and drove for several miles across town through heavy traffic. Part way along my journey I began to feel a tad ‘not right’. A bit ‘queasy’. Sort of ‘off balance’. Imagine my dismay upon removing my sunglasses at the end of this journey to realize one of the lenses had popped out. To this day I wonder what those folks thought of me with my lopsided grin, pirate-patched eyewear, as I cheerfully waved as I wondered why I was getting carsick when I was the one driving.
They say everyone has a double, Diana, and it sounds like I've found the female version of me. I think our DNA was polluted in the same nuclear accident.*laughing*
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part V
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part V is humorous adult literature featuring adult content and language. The work satirizes and spoofs thirteen classic tales from U.S. and British literature, a
I caught a reflective glimpse of my grandmother a few days ago and was mortified. Not because I feared some incorporeal apparition had appeared from some ethereal realm for a nether world visit, nor that some chemical remnant from my forgotten “groovin’ days” had disentangled itself from the depths of my cranium. Nay, nay, my friends. Not so melodramatic nor sensational. I was looking at a wrinkled, aged, and wizened face – one that I adored as a child – one that I believed rose and set the sun each day. Yet this grandma face depressed the hell out of me because it was a mirrored reflection; yes, mine.
