I hate getting older. I hate everything about it. The slow metabolism, the wrinkles, the added cellulite, the loss of hopes and dreams. But what’s the alternative? Death? Um…no thanks. I’ll take failure with a side of bingo arms.
Last week I wrote about how my ex-boyfriend plucked out a grey hair and sweetly said, ”Have fun getting older. I heard women really enjoy that process.” I was 26 years old and thought it was a rather weak insult. I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes. I was more pained by the hair tweak. Usually his sneers involved me being a slut with the occasional “You’re just like your dad” or “I hope you die young like your mom.” His words have hurt me. Like profoundly hurt me. Nicely done! But recently, I’ve been thinking of that age remark. For months now. God damn! He wasn’t the best boyfriend, but he was pretty good at hitting my wounds and predicting them. I think he’s single, ladies!
Am I bitter some may think? Why, yes!
What’s worse is how I’m embarrassed about being bitter. I pride myself in being a spiritual feminist! I should take the higher road! I tell myself. I should forget the past! I tell myself. I should stop shaving my armpits and learn to masturbate to hairy porn! I tell myself. But I live in a youth obsessed culture and live in a youth obsessed town. Plus, I work in a youth obsessed industry. It ain’t easy! Also, good feminist porn is hard to come by…(pun intended).
And when I was young, I was still miserable. I wasn’t concerned with my age as much as I was obsessed with my thigh size and whether you liked me or not. I was comparing myself to other girls who had bigger breasts and nicer families. It’s all the same tune. It now has different lyrics.
I can’t stop time. But can I stop this song? And how? I can’t have the rest of my life listening to this. It’s like listening to Korn on repeat.
First, I decided to memorize the poem Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou. I recite it every morning and actively memorize it while walking my dog. Second, I take the time to be grateful for how I am out of that shit-hole called your 20s. Sure, I was thinner and had less wrinkles, but that time was awful. I hated myself and other people. I was so confused about who I was and what I wanted. No thanks. I’ll take me now over Dixie then any day.
And lastly, I write a prune about it. That always does the trick.