The Worst Part of Aging

I like to think that I’m pretty realistic about my appearance.  I’m definitely no beauty queen, but I give myself a solid 6-6.5 when I’m done up properly and at my fighting weight {which hasn’t been for a looong time, but I’m slowly getting there}.  I have pretty green eyes, long dark hair that has the potential to look very nice, and I’m really tall, or statuesque when I want to fancy it up a bit.  I definitely don’t walk around like I think I’m some kind of schlub.  Self esteem has never really been an issue for me, surprisingly.  I think I’m really awesome, and I think everyone else should be aware of that.

Having said that, I am keenly aware of the fact that my body is getting older.  The creaking knees, crow’s feet, that wrinkle that pops up when I furrow my brow, and the occasional grey hair give it right away.  I’m not overly worried about it though.  I color my hair sometimes just for a change and not to combat an onslaught of grey hair.  I use a night cream, but that is mostly because I can’t stand dry skin.  I probably won’t ever drop a lot of coin on fancy serums or peels or spa treatments to make me look younger.  Not that there’s anything wrong with doing so, and I might change my mind about it, but I just don’t see my face as being amazing enough to try to keep it in amazing condition.  Call it aging gracefully, call it not caring about my appearance, call it whatever.  I’m pretty cheap and unless something is an absolute miracle worker, I would rather hang on to that money than smear it all over my face.  {Disclaimer: I am considering Botox for this brow furrow thing I’ve got going on.  I look like Andy Griffith, for reals.}

Although I don’t really spend a lot of time worrying about aging, there is one little aspect of it I absolutely hate.  It’s not my rapidly fading looks.  It’s not my creaking joints.  It’s not the fact that I don’t bounce back as easily from sickness or injury.  It’s not even the knowledge that I am rapidly hurtling toward my impending and inescapable death.  That’s morbid, but I’m all about real talk, yo.

The thing I hate most about aging?  Two words:  wild hairs.

They are The.  Worst.  I am generally not a hairy person.  The hair on my arms is generally very fine and light and doesn’t bother me enough to do anything about it.  I do have to shave my legs any time I want to wear shorts or a skirt, but years and years of shaving have made those hairs dark and coarse, of course.  Clever.  So imagine my shock and dismay when I look in the mirror and see that one big fat dark hair proudly displaying itself like a brazen harlot on my chin.  Where the heck did it come from??  It certainly wasn’t there yesterday, and now it’s long and thick and gross and I want it gone gone gone!  So it gets plucked.  But this is only a temporary solution.  I know it will come back.  Just like the three other crazy wild hairs that I get.  Oh yes, the chin hair brought friends!  One hangs out on the side of my neck, one bounces from forearm to forearm, and the other one grows out of a freckle on my upper arm.  It is the strangest and yuckiest thing I currently have the displeasure of dealing with on a regular basis.

The absolute worst is when I leave the house without checking for the usual suspects before I go.  I will glance in my rearview mirror or touch my chin for whatever reason, probably plotting something diabolical, and I feel that blasted wild hair.  Then I am self-conscious about it until I can get to my office and dig out the crappy pair of tweezers I keep on hand for just such an occasion and try to yank it out.  Do you know how frustrating subpar tweezers are in times like that?  When ALL YOU WANT TO DO is rip out that nasty chin hair by the root?  I get irrationally angry about not being able to pull out that hair.  I cannot rest until it is gone.  It literally drives me crazy.

I’ve defuzzed my upper lip for awhile, and I’ve recently moved to depeachifying my chin fuzz just to try to kill that one follicle that makes the wild hair.  It does no good.  My chin will be absolutely flawless, and that ONE WILD HAIR will show up.  I hate it.  I think I’m going to have to get it zapped.  I just want it GONE.

First world problems, I know.  If this is the worst thing going on in my life at any given time, I will absolutely take it.  Perspective, and all that.  It’s just a constant reminder that ultimately, the battle against aging is one we will all lose.  Yes, I know I’m cynical.  It’s one of my more endearing personality traits.

I think I’m going to start a little Botox funding account, though.  Just in case.

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