As I ponder the upcoming month of Roctober.* I hear a faint ticking. No, no, no, it is not the oft mentioned biological clock; between The Bee and my weekly storyhours my quota for baby lovin’ is fulfilled.** The ticking that I hear comes from that ominous sense of foreboding as I realize that the older lady in my reflection is NOT my mom looking over my shoulder but, – gulp! – she is me!
There are days when I wear my age like a badge of honor. Often mistaken for years younger I internally primp and preen as I hurriedly correct the error. I don’t mind disclosing my real age; my feeling is that until I actually look my correct age I will loudly and proudly tell all that I am indeed five to fifteen years older than originally guessed. Lately I find that the awe of my correct age is no longer coming as a surprise. I am no longer carded and not even asked to show ID when the age limit is 27.
Is it my demeanor? Leaky and Buffy claim that I act older, or in their terms like a little old lady. I disagree, always feeling that reserve is necessary in order to remain in balance with a sister whose personality can be bigger than life. Is it my physical appearance? I am drinking my water, taking my multi-vitamins and exercising; my diet still sucks but this post is so not about that. So what is it that makes me go from feeling va-va-va-voom to kerplut?
In my 20’s I would get by on a few Pepsis coupled with two or three hours of sleep. These days if I get less than six hours I feel – and look – like I have been through a battle. A coffee, a Pepsi or two and luck are vital to ensure that I get my morning started and then I hide behind my computer monitor hoping no one looks directly at me.
Not being a foo-foo high maintenace type my beauty regiment consists of moisturizer (lest I have ashy elbows), and the decision to wear my hair in a pony tail or tucked under a scarf. Every so often I will indulge and get my hair twisted by a professional. It lasts all of six days until the squeezing of my head gets to be too much and I snatch the style down. Makeup…My friend is a Mary Kay rep and she keeps trying to drag me to the dark side: foundations, shadows, blushers. On my more ambitious days I will jam on a bit of lip gloss that slides off of my lips by my second coffee. If I remember to reapply I feel like why bother?
Clothes are another matter. Jeans, tee and my clogs make up my uniform. Skirts make an appearance the days that I have a meeting or when i fail to finish the laundry. It’s good to be a children’s library type. I can wear jeans year round and no one says a word!
But, back to the matter at hand. Where did Rachee go? No longer can I get by without camo clothes. Spanx may be the invention of the year but I swear I feel like a sausage casing when I tug it on. Is it worth it? Sort of. If you don’t like breathing. I get by with a little help from my friends Mary Kay (my skin has never looked better), Avon (some of their lipsticks actually stay on til noon, but shhh! Don’t tell Kim!) and Revlon (my nails, when I haven’t bitten them to the quick look great).
When I talked with my mom about all of this she laughed and said that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. Do what you need to do for yourself she advises. It’s not vanity, it being comfortable with yourself.
Just in case, I’m adding some crunches and weights to my routine.
Not looking like a baby Jane doppelganger,
*My birthday is in October for all wanting to prepare for gift-giving!
**My stance on children is like that of a free offer: One per household, one per family.