One summer, I sat next to one of my oldest friends as we chatted under a shade awning in a campground. It had been raining all day, so we played games and discussed the world's problems. As we did, I studied her face. It was a little fuller, pale like I remembered it, and more moles than she used to have. She always had a lovely mole on her cheek--you know the kind that French aristocracy coveted and would actually fake for idealized beauty reasons? I'm sure this probably unnerved my friend. It's an awful habit of mine: studying the way things change over time. The way the lake where we camp has added bits of development and "improvements" to cater to the wealthier visitors, or the way the homes in the neighborhood change as people buy and sell and remodel. Currently, the changes to my own appearance have garnered my study.
Don't give me that look, Goat. You've clearly spent some time looking in the mirror to get those horns just right.
I wrote previously about cutting my hair shorter. I had thought of shaving it down really short like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3 short, but then I watched the new season of "Orange is the New Black" and decided I didn't want to be mistaken for a skinhead or Neo-Nazi. The gray in my hair though is something I'm rather fond of. I had one of those kinky, stick straight out of your head gray hairs this week. It made me laugh, but it wouldn't lay flat. I wound up plucking it for its insubordination, but on the whole, I rather enjoy the natural look of my hair. I haven't had the urge to go back to dyeing it except to make it all one bright, crayon box color like orange or purple. For now though, mousy with gray highlights is ok with me.
Damn straight, Sigourney.
Another change of age and chronic illness are the spots. I'm gaining spots. These aren't age spots mind you--not the things that resemble a bunch of freckles that decided to join forces to create mega-freckle. Although I do have two of those (on my jaw and on my chest), these are the lupus spots that indicate skin involvement in my condition. The lupus has been active for a while now and this is just one more piece of the fun. I have one on my arm that has faded, but it still looks a bit like a smallpox scar. I have another on my thigh, one on my back, and one on my other arm. They're roundish, red and slightly raised. Small potatoes comparatively, yet they keep showing up. Not on my list of favorite changes, but a change nonetheless.
Please don't be offended at my discomfort, Cheetah. Your spots are fabulous.
Earlier this week I had a class performance for belly dance. We do this about every 8 weeks after concentrating an element for that session. This performance concentrated on gypsy skirts. It's fun, lively, and exhausting. It takes a lot of energy to kick up your heels for even the three and a half minutes of a song I had. Well, my husband took his camera and proceeded to photograph us as we performed. I think he wants to update our Facebook page. Anyway, he got a profile of me smiling. It's a candid shot. Ordinarily I find something to criticize like my expression is weird, my head is down making my neck look like it has elephant trunk wrinkles, or my smile is overly toothy--something is wrong dammit and I don't want to look at that picture. This one though was natural and dare I say it? Pretty. I have a nice profile. Ok, there. I said it. I did notice that I have a lot more lines around my eyes; the ones that crinkle when you smile ya know? I'm 43 and I stay out of the sun, but there are those laugh lines cosmetic companies try and shame you for. Me though; I own those lines. I love them in fact. They are testimony to all the laughs, guffaws, and chortles I've enjoyed in life. I'm not going to day and night cream them away.
That's right, Castiel. My laugh lines. No wrinkle-shaming allowed.
Changes come in many varieties: ones you can change, ones you can't change, ones you love, and ones you'd rather do without. I'd rather get my strong, sculpted arms that I had before my neck fusion back, but that's going to be difficult. I can keep working to keep myself fit and healthy with all the yoga, strength training, and belly dancing I do. However, I work on those for me. For my self image and wellness not because some ad or product has shamed me into it. I only get this one body, gray hair, spots, and wrinkles included. I don't fear these changes; I embrace them. Well ok, the spots I will treat with the cream prescribed by my doctor, but I do accept them as part of living in this body. Maybe it's being 43 and part of that wisdom of age you hear about, but I'm thankful for the level of security I feel about my appearance at this age. Or maybe I just give a fuck what other people think anymore. I'm thankful for that, too.
Moose: You. Look. Marvelous!
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