Me, aged 30, model portfolio shoot.
Growing old sneaks up on you, really, really fast. One minute you're hanging in there in middle age, with men (in my case, as I'm a woman) still casting furtive glances at you, even though you're on the plus side of sixty and whoosh, overnight it seems, something has dropped and you discover a sudden clutch of grey hair on your temples; you know, the ones that make men look so distinguished.
Admittedly I'm a bit of a freak for greying so late. My mother had only a few grey hairs when she died at the age of eighty-one. I was, in fact, pleased with mine because, after decades of dyeing my hair blond, when Covid and isolation hit, I let it return to the mouse brown that had been inflicted on me by my genes. "Ah," I thought, "when I go blond again, no more dark roots." No such luck. I retain way too much mouse brown and my income has also dropped due to finishing work so I can no longer afford it, thanks to that uninvited little plague.
My age clock is about to tick over the seventy milestone on Christmas Eve. I am pleased as punch to have made it thus far and hope for a lot more, but I must resign myself to losing my, almost glamorous and not unattractive former self. I had worked hard at it. I had always worn make up, remained slim and worn heels. My feet now just laugh when I contemplate high heels in a moment of whimsy. I am so out of practice at wearing them, after giving up work, that I feel I am teetering if the heels are over two centimeters.
When I was a young girl, my mother would tell me that I was plain, but that I would be beautiful one day. It didn't help that she demanded that I keep my hair short and would nag me incessantly about it once I was old enough to ignore her demands and grow it. In any case, she told me I would be beautiful and so I made bloody sure I was. Whether by sheer force of will or good bone structure, I managed to achieve it. I suppose you would call it striking, rather than beautiful but, with long, blonded hair and artfully applied makeup, I did a good impression of it.
Makeup, now, has become a problem. Why? Essential tremor is why. Seven years ago my hands developed a tremor. That's all it is but, it's a nuisance. It makes putting on eye makeup and eating in restaurants a problem. With the eye makeup, I am liable to paint anything but my lids. With the restaurants, I am liable to feed someone beside me or fling food in their face rather than get it in my mouth. Some foods are okay, cutting and knife and fork coordination is not.
I was recently trying to help my six-year-old grand-daughter with some artwork she was creating by mixing some paint with a brush for her. The next thing I flipped the paint onto her nose. My darling grandchildren find me amusing, rather happily. I persist with typing on my laptop but the fourth and little finger of my left hand have other ideas. My new laptop has just upgraded itself and offers me speech to text writing, but I will persist with typing, or it will be like the high heels; if I stop, my fingers will forget how.
Back to my feet. My bunions are quite magnificent. The odd thing is, they don't hurt. They do if I wear shoes that are too tight but, by and large, they do not. A general practitioner saw them recently and his jaw dropped open. "Don't they hurt?", he exclaimed loudly. I replied that they did not. I've been offered an operation by public health but refuse. I think I'll leave well enough alone for now. I call the bunion on my right foot, Everest, and the one on my left, K2. My mother warned me I would get bunions with glee, as she had perfect feet. Apparently, I inherited them from her aunt.
I also, apparently, have arthritis in my bunions and, obviously, in my hands, which do not hurt unless someone squeezes them with vigor. My hands are gradually becoming deformed because of it but they're not too bad, I just can no longer open my palms out flat. About three years ago the fat under the skin of my hands also suddenly disappeared leaving them, with the help of sun damage, not the smooth things they had been.
What offends me most, however, are my arms. My upper arms were always taut and shiny things of beauty. Suddenly they have developed vertical wrinkles. Now, I'm not, and never have been, plump, or even close. I don't recall my mother having vertical arm wrinkles, but she was slightly on the heavy side so perhaps that's why. When my grandchildren sit either side of me at lunch, one will start to play with the floppy fat bit on the underside of my upper arm, then the other, finding it amusing, will join in on the other side. My arms are far from fat, I am slim, but when the skin stretches, any fat follows gravity. At least I can consider myself a toy.
My skin is now crepey and dry in various places but, all in all, my body and physique are doing well. My breasts have done an admirable job of staying firm and are only now sagging slightly. I forgive them as I loathe wearing a bra and do so as little as possible. Thank heavens for moderate sized bosoms.
My only other age-related problem are my eyes. I cannot consider the floaters I've had since I was twelve age-related since I have had them since then. They just get worse with time. What annoys me most is that once I was only short-sighted but now, I am also long-sighted. This really is galling. I mean, really, how can a person be both? I didn't mind being short-sighted so much, as everything up close was clear. Suddenly, I need glasses to see something small and fiddly up close. I've had graduated lenses for some time now because, ten years ago, my lenses for short-sightedness began to blur things when I looked at something near. This had never happened before but has something to do with the muscles ageing. Hence, I needed graduated lenses to correct this. Nonetheless, without glasses, I could still see fine up close. In the last year, however, I've had to pull away from print to see it, then when I get too far away, I have to move closer again. My eyes are not coordinated in this respect as each one has a different distance at which it likes to read.
Well, that's all I have to report, so far. My knees and hips are fine, which I'm beginning to think is unusual. I have met many people, some much younger than me, who have had operations to fix their knees, some even twice. My blood pressure was once on the low side and my cholesterol was perfect. Both are creeping upwards, but neither are cause for concern. I don't wish to have to start my breakfast with five or six different medications daily. If I can keep things under control as naturally as possible, I will.
There's no use fighting it, the trick is to stay alive as long as possible, feeling as well as possible.
Me, at 70.
See you next year.
END
