I’m wondering at what age I’m allowed to hire a personal care attendant, covered by insurance of course. I haven’t reached my toenails in two and half years and the other day in the shower I seriously considered whether or not it was worth it to soap up below the waist. It hurts when I go anywhere past my kneecaps.
I’m okay with gray hair; that’s been coming in since I was in my 30s and I could still reach my ankles. It’s the burgeoning mountain under my man-sized T-shirts, just below my sagging breasts, that really gets to me. I want to know when exactly I stopped looking like I was 20, because it feels like yesterday. I look in the mirror strictly from the shoulders up these days.
It’s not completely depressing. I know there are about a billion other women in the same boat I’m in. I love the women who wear whatever the hell they want. Doesn’t matter if they’ve got those top-heavy grandma arms or busted veins mapping their legs. I say go for it ladies. I’m gonna get there someday. I’ve already begun collecting scarves and heavy silver bracelets, and I’m working on finding a kaftan with just the right colors. I’ll wear it over all those leggings I can’t bring myself to wear in public. They’re like thick pantyhose, and I hate those too.
I used the stand-up desk option at work for nearly two and a half days before I caved in and sat my happy ass down in my crappy black office chair, which, by the way, sinks lower and lower every time I plop down on it. I do encourage others to use the standup desk though. They’d be the same people who bring kimchi for lunch. But secretly I googled stand-up desks and I believe they’re now finding that they’re not all they’re cracked up to be. Just like sugar-free chocolate frosting.
I work full time now, at least as long as I can manage to convince everyone that I know what I’m doing. I find people are a little intense these days. You make one little mistake and everybody goes nuts. Whatever.
I have one thing going for me: the younger folks are so transient that I find there are still some old farts in charge who rely on people of a certain age to take care of business. So a bunch of dinosaurs are putting together the last remnants of your genuine hand-held, bird-cage-ready, use-for-wrapping paper newspaper. Remember when we all read those and people gave a shit? God love ‘em.