Hell in a Handbasket

Hello, Loves, did everyone have a great weekend? I had friends in town and it was fantastic. It's always comforting to see friendly faces and you miss them when they go. But I wanted to do a follow up post. Last Thursday, I posted a video of a song that I listen to often and the message behind it was to hopefully encourage people that its okay if you don't feel perfect, we are all perfect in some way in someone's eyes. Now, I give you some of the reasoning why I feel like I am going to hell in a handbasket. 

As my 41st birthday is approaching fast, I started to think of all of the good in my life and the way I have lived, but nobody ever prepares you for how you will look. Now granted there are Hollywood starlets out there that still have the face of a 25 year old. I am sure that has to do with good genetics and a gas pump full of fillers and Botox. I mean in Tinsel Town, I am sure there is a drive-thru window somewhere where you can get a shot in the forehead "to go" with the green monster diet smoothie and In & Out burger, but here in redneck land, I have to rely on cheap wrinkle cream and Neutragena face wash.

Here are a few things I have notice going on with this 40 year old. First, after reading in a magazine about the best jeans for your shape, I realize that they don't make a "prune" shape. You got boy, pear or petite shape, but I think since everything seems to be NOT defying gravity, I am going with the dried up prune. My butt now only fills out the jeans but the jiggle is more prevalent and probably looks like two pigs in a blanket. 

Then when I flex my arms I seem to have muscles, yet there is no longer definition. Its just an arm. Plain Jane straight arm with a mud flap that is starting to show itself. So now when I wave goodbye, I am waving twice with once body part. Mad talent skill.

My once perky tits are starting to migrate under my arms. Which only can mean one thing, since they no longer look 25, they want to crawl into my pits and hide like a polar bear hibernates in the winter. Hmm, maybe that's what my bubbies are doing; they are going into lifetime of hibernation. Which is good, if I lie down flat, my son now has a sled for the three inches of snow we may or may not get this winter.

Let's not even mention the grey hairs and I am not talking about the one's on my head. The ones that grow out of your eyebrows are sold white, thick and they poke straight out. I love turning into a porcupine. I now have quills growing between my eyes. I am not even going to mention the ones that also produce themselves on the chuckie. Those die a fast death, one shave and gone. If anything can give away your mojo, it's the presence of gun metal on the party bus.

The list goes on and on. Crow's feet, my voice is starting to sound like a roid raged beef cake and the age spots collecting on my body could be a road map of death. I don't understand how it all happened so fast, but it did. Somewhere I have to look inside myself to say, "hey, you look pretty darn good for almost 41." Then I turn the lights on and it all happens again, tweezers, anti-aging serum, hair dye and host of crap that I have to do, just to maintain the I don't look like Grandmas Moses. Seriously, I am about four years away from mom jeans and those Luv my panties that are made of stretch cotton, if I don't get off the stick and so something about it. I can't change my age, but maybe if every day I hold my face pulled back like a platypus, draw on new eye brows, use contour to define my muscles and shave a heart on my drooping tootatoot, I will feel 25 again.

Happy Monday,

Dusty