On the Corner of Desert Drive and Melting Lane – The reality of Getting older…



So, I just turn 31 a couple of weeks ago… and as thrilling as it is to get older, what has hit me even harder is that I am probably leaving my prime years behind me. I am noticing wrinkles people! The lines are getting deeper while my pores are getting bigger. I am starting to feel like a desert that got shot up with land mines. Can a person shrivel up so early on in life? I swear my skin is starting to look parched and pasty, no doubt a prime candidate for being an extra in The Walking Dead.

Now that I’m officially in my 30’s I am noticing that things are starting to shift southwards. That it’s taking longer to loose weight, that I’m needing a foundation with a concrete base so I can shelac it on my face, that my bra straps need to be hoisted up to an unimaginable height which has created new grooves in my shoulders and while I’m being completely honest I might as well say that there are hairs popping up in places that make me want to cry. That one is no doubt due to my Greek roots. Thanks parents for that one. I can officially say I  am now a mix between the melting wicked witch in the wizard of Oz, wolverine, The Swamp Thing and the marshmallow man. So, with all these wonderful transformations happening I have realised that my prime years are leaving me.

Now, I would probably have handled this better if I knew I had someone already there as my partner. You know someone who is stuck with me and knew that I once was a pretty decent catch. At least they could hold on to that image in their mind while all these transformations happen. But to still be single and this shit to be happening is not cool. Suddenly my friend’s joke of being a cranky old cat lady is hitting a little too close to home. I haven’t got a cat yet people, so there’s still some sort of hope I guess.

Dates now seem like it takes me a week to prepare for. And on the day of, I feel like I’m one second shy of having a cardiac arrest.  Just the thought of trying to prettify myself is getting my heart rate going. I feel at this rate it’s going to get a whole lot worse. My beauty regime will become even longer where I will have to get up at 4 am just to prepare myself for the day and where I will have to go to bed at around 1am because it will take me 5 hours just to sandpaper all the crap off me. I mean, it is getting pretty bleak.

Being single in your 20’s is one thing, while being single in your 30’s is looked at as slightly depressing. But, to be a single, melting, pudgy wolverine is a down right cruel punishment. There was a reason why people got married young and divorce was unfathomable back in the day. I know society would have you believe that the men of religion brought that forward but I am convinced it was women. That way you got them while they were beautiful and when their transformations started taking effect the men couldn’t escape, therefore never having to fear you will be a spinster hag that rivalled the hunch back of notre dame. Ok fine, I know a bit far fetched but whatever.

Meeting new people seems harder now and when you are looking for a potential suitor it is slim pickings out there. At this point I would just be happy for someone with a pulse  who isn’t married. I mean that surely isn’t much to ask for.  But would they still want me? I mean I think I can still doll up for the first stages of dating but what happens when they sleep over and see me in the morning in the harsh light of day? At least it’s cloudy for most of the year in England so that has worked in my favour. But on the downside my skin has gotten so white that it has only enhanced my pasty-ness. Either way they would have to sleep over at my place because to wake up in their place without my arsenal would be unthinkable. Or I would have to carry a Mary Poppins bag and every girl knows that arriving on a date with a suitcase sized bag is not cute. So when they sleep over at my place it would mean that my make up would be staying on for the night especially on my eyebrows. I was over zealous when I was a kid and now they are sparse and ridiculous looking…CURSE YOU TWEEZERS and curse you mom for failing to advise me better!! I would have to sleep on my back the whole night in fear that I might smudge my carefully constructed face and my pillow will inevitably look like picasso himself came over for a painting session. So not only will I be cranky because of the lack of sleep but let’s not forget my whole beauty regime would be fucked where no doubt a new bullet hole would leave its mark on my already cluttered face. As you can see I have already made the potential scenario even more than what it would be. I know I’m over analysing, but I’m a woman, that’s what we do.

As you can no doubt tell, I am not thrilled of the prospect of getting older. Maybe if I had lots of money this wouldn’t even be an issue. But being poor and only being able to afford the cheap remedies has not worked. I have more creams and elixirs than I care to admit. Even my choice of foot wear as of late have been flats because heels are another painful reminder that my poor little feet can’t sustain the fat that I’m walking around with all day. The only time I wear heels is when I’m on a date. Even for those couple of hours I want to shoot myself. The shitty thing is people only aproach you if you are well put together. I have never heard a man say, damn, she sure looks like she has a great personality. No, they look at your tits, your face, how tall you are and if your junk is in all the right places. If all these things look appealing and then they find out you’re funny with a great personality it’s like striking gold. I know I got the funny down, and a pretty good personality, but the rest is a train wreck. So you tell me, how the hell am I supposed to catch me a guy? And let’s say I eventually do, then there’s that old pesky pessimism that’s laced with self-doubt, self-consciousness and awkwardness when you know that evenutually this person is going to see you naked. And that right there kills me every time. I don’t even want to see myself naked so how the hell can I expect that a guy would.

I tell you, it was a lot easier when I was younger. Now, it’s just a very slow torturous ride that I will never be able to get used to and just when I think that I’ve come to grips with how I look, that’s when another line and another inch down and outwards sends me right into the arms of a straight jacket and four padded walls.


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