Drawing a line
In the ‘war against ageing’ I have hitherto remained a rather smug conscientious objector. Blessed with my mother’s genes, the ageing process had not really kicked in, and I was full of the ‘growing old gracefully’ rhetoric.
That is until this week when a weapon of mass destruction scored a direct hit on me. (Gone are the days when I spend hours primping and preening but…) I happened to be painting my toe nails when I noticed to my horror that I had lines on the tops of my toes. Jesus H Christ. Then I get hit by another missile when upon further examination I see that my hands have turned into wizened old ladies’ claws full of criss-cross lines and floppy parchment skin. Oh my God. I have grey hairs, bugger me. And those those two bloody lines between my eyebrows that everyone lances with Botox.
Suddenly I’m paying attention to Boswelox and Wrinkelox ads, “I look fifty but I feel twenty” or whatever. I rush to the close ups in Heat of the sagging arse of a Desperate Housewife and crick my neck in despair as I try to view mine in the bedroom mirror (smeared incidentally with sticky hand prints from various princesses viewing themselves with delight, who at the same time interfere with the delicate mechanism that keeps the mirror straight so that it immediately smacks me on the head).
Who the fuck has been messing with my picture in the attic? I told Steve to be careful when he stuffed the Christmas decorations back up there. I’ve had Steve remove all the photos of me from Flickr and I’m searching the archives for younger shots of me (even if I’m smoking and kissing other fellas) whilst getting the old fella to Photoshop out my lines, stretch my legs and slice off my belly. My only solace is my eyesight’s deteriorating (age, apparently) so as long as I keep the curtains closed and the lights dimmed I look great.