The Bold…The Beast and The Beautiful

I stood for awhile tonight at my bathroom mirror. I actually stood and peered into my own reflection…looked into my own eyes to see what lies behind the flesh and bone. Someone told me recently that my eyes sometimes talk and I wanted to know what they said. They didn’t talk. Maybe I have to be looking at, or thinking of something before my eyes say anything. I actually twisted my face around to see what would happen. Not many wrinkles. No spots…just a couple of left over bug bites from a trip through the swamps of Chincoteague. Does my skin bounce back? Am I getting old? Should I get a face lift?

Ugh…those of you that really know me know that my beauty regime is minimal. Wash my face, brush my teeth…maybe do my hair…why the hell am I staring at myself in the mirror? Am seriously about to let my hair dred again cause I so do not feel like messing with a brush.

Because a face tells many stories. It’s the beast and the beautiful in all of us.

Colin watched me contorting my face in the mirror.
Him: “Mommy…there are 16 lines on your face!”
Me: “Really? Where?”
Him: “Beside your eyes…they’re funny when you laugh.”

Laugh lines. Only sixteen? I did count and he’s right on of course.

Laugh lines…awesome! From here out…every stress will bring on another laugh line. Every down moment will elicit a humorous outlook…every bad thought will cause an equally hilarious thought to cross my mind. I want 72 laugh lines before I’m forty! We’ve got 5 months.

Tomorrow I’ll stake up my lilies so their beauty will show through the scrub.

Tomorrow I will be beautiful despite what the beast inside me tells me I am.

Tomorrow I’ll kiss someone just for the hell of it.

Tomorrow I might dance some more…kitchen parties rock.

Tomorrow I might imagine the future.

Tomorrow I will laugh like crazy at anything I can find.

The beast won’t find me.

It’s all good.

Even when it’s not.

When Did Sexy Get So Lumpy?

This post proves that I suffer from flight of ideas and that when I die, scientists will likely dissect parts of my brain to see what the heck happened.  I think women might appreciate what I say here a little more than men, but alas, I cannot keep men out of cyberspace.

Last night I told my husband that if he dies I’d have to keep all his t-shirts or I’d have nothing to sleep in. (For more on the intimate conversations I have with him see this post) It went something like this…

ME: “Do you like matching pjs on women? I mean, do you think it’s sexy when someone wears real pyjamas to bed?”

HIM: “I think it’s a little wierd.”

ME: “Why? Some women really want to please their husbands and try to look nice all the time. Does it bother you that I’m not like that? I sort of sleep in whatever is handy.”

HIM: “Are you comfortable?”

ME: “Yes.”

HIM: “Good.”

End of conversation. But all I kept thinking was when did sexy get so lumpy? He obviously doesn’t care what I wear to bed as long as I’m there to keep his toes warm. I think I’m cute most of the time. I mean, my husband is a very lucky guy in my opinion. I don’t spend too much time constructing outfits or wearing push up bras or anything like that, and yet he’s somewhat attracted to me after all these years. I now have lumps and bumps where there used to be flawlessness. I have marks and dimples and spider veins starting.

In the beginning, I was a little hippy chick wearing patchouli and tempting dreadlocks at times. I had those hair wraps with bells on the end (and I still would if it wasn’t for adulthood creeping in). I wore sarongs around the house and boycotted shoes and lingerie as much as possible. I was a teeny weeny size 4 and didn’t care too much about covering my midriff if it was hot outside. It had nothing to do with sex appeal, simple weather related clothing choices. But HE liked it and thought it was sexy and that’s what got this whole thing started. Then I started wearing khakis and sweaters and shoes with heels. I began shopping at Christopher & Banks instead of Salvation Army. My clothing choices got all grown up and middle-aged-suburban-mom-ish.

Except on the inside I’m still me and still forget to comb my hair after a shower. I still would rather go barefoot to the store and wear bells on my ankles. I still crank the tunes in the car with the window down and I still think Jerry Garcia is pretty good.  I wish I’d let that Hindu lady pierce my nose on the beach in the 80s and I am seriously considering a tattoo. I spent a night or two in the Everglades sleeping in a VW bus once and I’d do that again in a heartbeat (except the part about the cop in the morning looking in the window at me!)

I recently had a client pull out a quarter bag, seperate the seeds and stems and roll a big fat joint right in front of me…so he obviously thought I was still cool! Silly man.

I guess maybe my husband has realized that the lumps and bumps are merely signs of perfecting with age. He is somehow able to see past that (even with the lights on) and find the sexy somewhere. That’s a good thing, ’cause he’s pretty much stuck with it! I wish I could do that as well as he does.