Shit Happens – The Middle
Aged Siren
I am in my mid-forties and marching towards fifty. I’m horrified by the changes in my body, no
matter how hard I work at holding it all together, and concede that I am
definitely losing my fight with gravity.
A far cry from the narcissist, I scream in fright if I walk past a
mirror and catch a glimpse of my naked form. I am in awe and more than a little envious of
the women my age who can look in the mirror and just accept the reflection. I am constantly shocked and surprised that it
just continues to deteriorate at frightening speed.
Curves
Never accepting the label ‘curvaceous’, I have fought hard to
change those curves over the years but to no avail. Even when I have lost a decent amount of
weight at one stage or another, it was still the same me running around with
all of those lumps and curves, I was just a little harder to find. And when I finally did get down to my desired
weight (this has only happened on a couple of occasions), I had eaten nothing
but lettuce leaves dipped in vinegar and would look longingly at a glass of
wine with an unhealthy desire. Then I
got sick – my immune system shot to the shitter, taking my resolve along with
it.
Torture Classes
Spin Class: The first
spin class at the absurd hour of 6am did little to improve my body shape but it
did teach me some valuable lessons in understanding the workings of an exercise
bike. Thou shalt not suddenly cease pedaling. The very first attempt at this class had me
thrown face first over the handle bars of the bike, almost tearing my mons pubis
off in the process. Face flaming, not so
much from exertion as embarrassment, I caught myself just before hitting the
floor and awkwardly hauled myself back over the handle bars to my seat. The instructor asked if I was alright,
drawing the attention of every person in that sweaty spin class and making me
blush scarlet. All I wanted to do was
climb off the stupid contraption and go home and back to bed to start the day
again. Shit!
Boot Camp: Then there were the boot camp classes that found me
at 5.30am doing push-ups, burpies and commando crawling on an oval shimmering
white with frost. It was as cold as a
witch’s tit out there in the dead of winter and here I was romping around in it,
all in an effort to tighten my booty.
Running with 10kg weights in my hands didn’t do the ‘Boxercise’ induced
shoulder injury much good either but by the time I got fed up with it, my arse
was so tight and so high that I was just about getting my hair caught in the
crack and getting shit stains on my collar.
Then the trainer turned out to be a fuckwit and I had to leave before I separated
him from his testicles. Dick!
Gym: Back to the gym I went, continuing to do the same shit,
peppering it with weights and hating every Godamned second of it. I wasn’t losing weight and shrinking, I was
turning into butch Hercules! Getting up
at the crack of a sparrow’s fart lasted for about seven consecutive years
before I threw it all into the too hard basket and opted out of gym
memberships. Walking would have to
suffice and I would walk at a decent time of day too. Enough!
Pole Dancing: I seriously contemplated taking up pole
dancing. I had heard amazing things
about what it does for your body.
Further investigation revealed that I would be required to turn up to
these classes in high heels and hot pants.
Imagining my hail damaged fat arse squeezed into tight little hot pants with
my thunder thighs squished out the bottom made me laugh so hard it resulted in
an asthma attack. Then I imagined hauling this fat arse up a
pole and trying to slide down, my thighs gripping the pole; vibrating & shaking
all the way down and tearing myself a new one in the process. Or worst still, hanging upside down
seductively then losing my grip and landing on my head. I have the grace and aplomb of a baby hippopotamus
on ice skates and couldn’t imagine putting myself through the class without
actually dying of embarrassment. Nope
Gravity
Boobs: Everything is heading south at an alarming rate. My breast tissue has lost all elasticity and I
have to pour them into my bra where they look amazing until I come home and rip
the annoying restraint off and sling-shot it across the room, letting the
prisoners run free. There is almost an
audible ‘slap’ as they flop against my body, swinging pendulously. My raging hormones are making the bloody
things get larger which is making the whole gravity issue fast forward at a
rate that’s off the radar. The last time
I walked into a lingerie shop to purchase a new sports bra (I had been doing
some floor exercises and as I lifted my pelvis off the floor, one of my tits
hit me in the chin and almost made it to my mouth – time for a new bra), the
attendant took the DDs I had taken into the cubicle with me and said “I think
you’re an E cup now”. “The Hell I am!”
I bellowed at her, my face thunderous in my denial. She patted my shoulder and condescendingly said
“it happens to the best of us, we just have to accept our changing bodies”. She was, like, twenty two years old and a B
cup, if that. Fuck off with your sage
advice, bitch - surviving puberty does not equate to a mutual hormonal
experience. I marched right out of that
store and went to another where I was given the same advice, but coming from a
woman in her fifties in the throes of a hot flush, it wasn’t such a bitter pill
to swallow. I am not looking forward to
menopause – the very thought scares the shit out of me. Aarrgghh!
Bum: My arse, despite my best efforts, is starting to droop
and I can see it sagging in the back of my knickers. Even my sexiest lingerie now looks like a
sack of shit on me. I’ve lost all interest
in trying to look sexy. At my age, I
just want to be comfortable and not have four boobs or have my knickers
disappear up my arse. The backs of all
my bras are at least eight centimeters wide and my knickers have to have a wide
boat arse in them. None of that ‘cheeky’
cut knickers business – they just go straight up my arse and feel like I’m
wearing a thong and I am opposed to wearing bum floss. I don’t relish spending the whole day with my
fingers up my arse digging them back out again.
The Captain once asked why I have to wear bras with such horribly large and
unsexy backs on them. He doesn’t understand
the gravity thing. He bought me lingerie
once and it was a total fail. It had a
one centimeter thin strap across the back, which spent most of its time up the
back of my neck caught in my hair with the weight of my tits, and thin
spaghetti straps which dug into my shoulders painfully. The knickers were the kind that would look gorgeous
on a Victoria’s Secret model but which made me look like an ethnic Michelin Man
with a tan. Unsexy has become my bedroom attire. We've been doing this for a very long time husband, I'm a sure thing! I have actually started wearing a thin cotton
thing, which I bought in Thailand to throw over bathers, to bed and it looks
alarmingly like a ninety year old woman’s nighty. As unsexy as it is, it is hella
comfortable! Passion Killer.
Wrinkles
Laugh lines my arse – my face looks OLD! Where did these crow’s feet come from? I could give Crocodile Dundee a run for his
money with this face. I recently had my
ten year Driver’s License photo taken and was horrified to see that my whole
face has dropped. What the fuck
happened? Ten years ago I had a small
tight triangular face, now I’ve got a giant misshapen rectangle. I’ve got jowls… JOWLS!!! If I dare to look
down, I’ve got about 25 chins and did I mention that I’ve got JOWLS! I flex my hand and the veins stand up on the
backs of my hands like giant worms under my skin; I twist my wrist and the skin
on my forearm wrinkles and Chinese burns itself, I smile and I my eyes crinkle;
I frown and my forehead furrows; I look concerned and I get a second vagina
between my eyebrows; I get up in the morning and there is a giant crease
between my tits which goes all the way up to my throat… it’s still there at
10am; I squeeze my arse and get…. just dimples – it doesn’t wrinkle because THE
SKIN IS STRETCHED TIGHT OVER ITS AMPLE FORM!
Younger Me
When I was in my twenties, I assumed you bought a plot of
land when you reached forty as you were destined to meet your maker in a few
short years. Now that I’m here, I would
dearly love to go back in time and shake the living shit out of that stupid twenty
year old idiot. I would tell her to stop
smoking because she will regret the cat’s arse her mouth becomes in the future;
I would tell her to stop hating on her body because even though she’s not a
stick insect, she is lean, firm, young, fit and strong. I would tell her to embrace her large Latino
arse because in the future, huge horse arses would be highly sought after and
one celebrity, who had hers augmented to look like Pharlap’s booty, would take
photos of her oiled up giant arse and break the internet and another would
write a song stating that anaconda’s really like butts of an equine likeness; I
would tell her to enjoy her C cup bras as she’s going to reach udder status in
her later years; I would tell her to wear all the beautiful sexy lingerie she
can now because she’s going to look like a Shetland pony in the future and lose
all desire to wear it because it hurts and looks really shit; and I would tell
her to learn to love herself now so she wouldn’t be so hard on herself in the
future when it really counted…when gravity and age ravage it and make it look
ick. Turn all the lights out!
Doona
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