The periwinkle
Blue of sparkling cosmic dust
Oh, summer twilight
R. Heade, 4 March 2006
Cocoon like birch bark
Shudders and disrobes its queen
Her palace, a rose
R. Heade, 4 March 2006
White wisteria
Laden blossoms beckoning
Seductress of bees
R. Heade, 4 March 2006
04 March 2006
The Big "O" No!
Well, this has just been a stellar week for my feminine ego. It all started on Tuesday morning when I was getting ready for work. There is no dress code where I work, except that you should wear something. However, there are only so many days in a row that I can wear jeans and a nice t-shirt. So, on Tuesday morning I pulled out a cute pair of tweedy trousers and an orange sweater I’d not worn before. I put the items on and went into the dressing area of the bathroom to behold myself in the mirror. As I looked at myself in the mirror I realized there was something I didn’t like about the sweater. My sweetheart, a.k.a. the Piper, was brushing his teeth and as he finished he noted the one- eyed squinchy look I was making and said “I think that top might be a little too young for you.” It was if all of a sudden my core female question had changed. As far as I know I went to bed on Monday night in the “Does this make me look fat?” stage of my life, and woke up on Tuesday morning in the “Am I too old for this?” stage. I probably should have seen this coming, as just a few months ago I was informed by a Christian Dior sales lady that I had moved from “preventive” to “corrective” products. You know, more emollient for those tiny dry lines.
Now, I’m not one of those gals whose youth obsessed, and I realize that I’m rounding the curve toward 50 but I don’t need to get there ahead of schedule. Anyway, I switched tops and off to work I went. I handed off the offending sweater to a young colleague and moved on. Or so I thought.
On Wednesday I went to see the dermatologist about my rosacea which is flaring up this winter. Things are going fine with her. She looks at my skin as I try and determine if she gets botox injections or is her forehead really that smooth. She steps back and says “Well, you do seem to be having quite a lot of redness. Of course, you’re a little prematurely gray….” I never even heard why it mattered because inside my head I’m yelling “Hey, I’m 46 and I have nearly all white hair what do you mean a “little premature”? My Mom didn’t have this kind of white hair until her sixties.” As I leave prescription in hand I’m sure she gets botox and I hope that next time I see her she can’t move her lips.
However, the final blow came on Thursday night as I dutifully opened my mail: Nordstrom’s; The Bon (I mean Macy’s); Val-Pak; AARP. Stop. What? AARP? Grrr. Letter opener in hand I slip and rip it open. The form letter advises me that I’m missing out on all the benefits of being over 50 and an AARP member. By the end as I screech past the proffered temporary card I’m advising the letter that I was born in 1959 and that they can just have their letter back and resend it in 3 ½ years.
Friday morning I put on a classy pair of pale plaid pants a cute chocolate “V” neck sweater and some very sassy pointed toe brown shoes with tassels. I brush my white hair put on my very Jackie-O sunglasses, collect my carpool partner, get in my bright lime green turbo bug (a.k.a. Millie), grab a non-fat latte and head straight back into my mid-forties where I’ll be until late August of 2009.
Now, I’m not one of those gals whose youth obsessed, and I realize that I’m rounding the curve toward 50 but I don’t need to get there ahead of schedule. Anyway, I switched tops and off to work I went. I handed off the offending sweater to a young colleague and moved on. Or so I thought.
On Wednesday I went to see the dermatologist about my rosacea which is flaring up this winter. Things are going fine with her. She looks at my skin as I try and determine if she gets botox injections or is her forehead really that smooth. She steps back and says “Well, you do seem to be having quite a lot of redness. Of course, you’re a little prematurely gray….” I never even heard why it mattered because inside my head I’m yelling “Hey, I’m 46 and I have nearly all white hair what do you mean a “little premature”? My Mom didn’t have this kind of white hair until her sixties.” As I leave prescription in hand I’m sure she gets botox and I hope that next time I see her she can’t move her lips.
However, the final blow came on Thursday night as I dutifully opened my mail: Nordstrom’s; The Bon (I mean Macy’s); Val-Pak; AARP. Stop. What? AARP? Grrr. Letter opener in hand I slip and rip it open. The form letter advises me that I’m missing out on all the benefits of being over 50 and an AARP member. By the end as I screech past the proffered temporary card I’m advising the letter that I was born in 1959 and that they can just have their letter back and resend it in 3 ½ years.
Friday morning I put on a classy pair of pale plaid pants a cute chocolate “V” neck sweater and some very sassy pointed toe brown shoes with tassels. I brush my white hair put on my very Jackie-O sunglasses, collect my carpool partner, get in my bright lime green turbo bug (a.k.a. Millie), grab a non-fat latte and head straight back into my mid-forties where I’ll be until late August of 2009.
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