THE ART OF AGING IS A MYTH

The art of aging is a myth.  It is not art, and it ain’t pretty.  What my body does today at 67 is sure a far cry from what it was like at 20.  I was looking in the mirror yesterday and I thought, “it looks like I stood in front of a heat lamp and my skin is melting.”  Everywhere skin is sagging.

I ordered a summer dress and it came yesterday.  It was from a catalogue that caters to women my size.  The magazine may cater to my size, but the dress didn’t.

I went back to my bedroom to try on the dress, excited that I may have another casual outfit to wear to the local theater.  

I opened the package and pulled out the dress.  “Umm”, I thought, not a dress that I can wear a bra with.  It should of been my first indication that I should not be trying the dress on.  But hey, it has been since the 70’s when we women were burning our bras and I was free to swing in the wind.  So heck, let me see what it does.

I put it on.  I started laughing so hysterically that I could not answer my daughter when she called out to see what was going on.

“Just trying on a dress,” I finally managed to get out through the hysterical laughter, “but I don’t think I should wear it outside my bedroom.”  The truth is, I should not be wearing it anywhere!

I stood looking in the mirror and saw a V shaped neckline so low that my cleavage looked like it was heading south to my belly button.  The part that made me laugh was that my breasts were still heading farther south than that!  It was not a pretty sight.

I asked my daughter, “Who on this earth would wear such a dress that was my size?”  

She smiled and said I should try on a elasticized shell that could be worn under the dress.  She pulled one out and brought it to me.  I slipped the dress off my shoulder and put the shell on.  It hugged me tight and wore like a sports bra cover, pulling in my breasts and giving them some (and the key word here is some) support.  Once I got it on my daughter informs me that I need to pull the “Ole girls” up.  

“What do you mean?”, I asked.

“You know mom, grab them and pull them up and tuck the material under them so they won’t hang so low.” she says.

So with a tug and a pull, I park them in place and then I put the dress back on, stood there and said, “This looks pathetic.”

Joliene, left the room and I slipped the dress off, upset that dressing with grace at this stage of my life is a challenge.  I reached down and grabbed the shell and attempted to pull if up over my head.  Laughing while doing this, I found my arm strength verses the tightness of the garment did not match leaving my arms trapped in a pointed up position. There I stood, naked from the waste up, my arms trapped in the damn sports bra shell unable to move, yank or pull. 

Laughing harder now than earlier,  I call out to Joliene, “Help me.”  Imagine the sight as she entered the room seeing me standing there, exposed, with my arms trapped in an upward position.  “I cannot get it off,” I said and she reached out and helped pull it off my head.  

I know I try to write about living life by accepting the changes in my life, but there is nothing pretty about an aging body.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize that I am better off alone in this world of sags and wrinkles.  I know that I won’t be responsible for scaring anyone to death if they should catch me getting out of the shower!