My body betrays me
One of the hardest things to come to terms with as I age is the profound difference between the age I feel in my mind and the age my body and face show me in the mirror.
I still want to bounce around in a bikini like a 25 year old (I was totally hot at 25, even though I was toting around a toddler).
I can't even bring myself to wear bikini underwear anymore. Not because my lover will be repulsed...screw that! Not only does it repulse me( it being the hunk of flab that droops over the top edge of the underwear when I'm in a sitting position) , but the hunk 'o flab is prominent enough that I can feel it even while standing. So, I can't escape it. Maybe if I didn't feel this slab of brisket bunching up around my torso region every time I so much as dare to slouch, not to mention sit down, I might dare to bare ~ a little.
I worked with a heavy set young woman once, she was a big girl, who was wise about her size. She said just because they make bikinis in my size does not mean I should wear one. I don't want to look at that crap why should I subject anyone else to it?
I've always remembered that when tempted to dance on the edge of decorum for a woman my age. Even women my age who are blessed, or bulimic, with thin bodies, still show other tale-tale signs of middle age that should preclude them from exposing too much skin.
We all know what those are...the wrinkles, that the thinner of us are cursed with more of than the heavier among us. The age spots, disgusting little red bumps and vestiges of skin resembling flat, flappy moles called tags, ( you're it, doesn't even come into play here) along with the stretch marks on our tummies, thighs or breasts as a result of pregnancy(s) or the titty fairy who visited our young bodies taking us from the great plains to the Rocky Mountains seemingly overnight.
How is a single middle-aged woman supposed to date with all this crap going on underneath our clothes? I won't even get into the chemical changes we're beginning to experience...that's a whole rant unto itself.
The collagen in men's bodies at this stage of the game is still doing its part to keep even their bulging bellies somewhat firm and supple. Which is totally unfair...theirs feels like firm, round Buddha bellies while ours jiggles like jello taken out of the fridge too soon. Of course, men our age tend to still be more physically active than women my age so, it isn't any wonder they lean towards women with bodies as taut as a tight wire.
Middle-aged men beware! Middle-aged women have a gift for choosing clothing, and certain deceptive underwear that flatters and camouflages the body beneath that betrays us.
We may "appear" as flat tummied, perky breasted, and round bottomed as our 30-something sisters, but peel away the layers and your pretty much stuck with a bottom that looks like an over-ripe orange, sans the green smelly mold God willing, breasts that are drawn to our navel as if it were a magnet, and a mid-section straight out of a butcher's window...marbled, untrimmed brisket.
Trust me fellas, you're turn is coming...in 20 years, but it's coming. By that time, we'll be used to our imperfections to the point of rejoicing in them, yeah right, you heard me rejoicing...not because they are beautiful (there will be those nipped and tucked with whom the average lovely lady cannot compete) but because we're on an even playing ground with you. You, on the other hand, will be just beginning your affair with a body that betrays you.
I still want to bounce around in a bikini like a 25 year old (I was totally hot at 25, even though I was toting around a toddler).
I can't even bring myself to wear bikini underwear anymore. Not because my lover will be repulsed...screw that! Not only does it repulse me( it being the hunk of flab that droops over the top edge of the underwear when I'm in a sitting position) , but the hunk 'o flab is prominent enough that I can feel it even while standing. So, I can't escape it. Maybe if I didn't feel this slab of brisket bunching up around my torso region every time I so much as dare to slouch, not to mention sit down, I might dare to bare ~ a little.
I worked with a heavy set young woman once, she was a big girl, who was wise about her size. She said just because they make bikinis in my size does not mean I should wear one. I don't want to look at that crap why should I subject anyone else to it?
I've always remembered that when tempted to dance on the edge of decorum for a woman my age. Even women my age who are blessed, or bulimic, with thin bodies, still show other tale-tale signs of middle age that should preclude them from exposing too much skin.
We all know what those are...the wrinkles, that the thinner of us are cursed with more of than the heavier among us. The age spots, disgusting little red bumps and vestiges of skin resembling flat, flappy moles called tags, ( you're it, doesn't even come into play here) along with the stretch marks on our tummies, thighs or breasts as a result of pregnancy(s) or the titty fairy who visited our young bodies taking us from the great plains to the Rocky Mountains seemingly overnight.
How is a single middle-aged woman supposed to date with all this crap going on underneath our clothes? I won't even get into the chemical changes we're beginning to experience...that's a whole rant unto itself.
The collagen in men's bodies at this stage of the game is still doing its part to keep even their bulging bellies somewhat firm and supple. Which is totally unfair...theirs feels like firm, round Buddha bellies while ours jiggles like jello taken out of the fridge too soon. Of course, men our age tend to still be more physically active than women my age so, it isn't any wonder they lean towards women with bodies as taut as a tight wire.
Middle-aged men beware! Middle-aged women have a gift for choosing clothing, and certain deceptive underwear that flatters and camouflages the body beneath that betrays us.
We may "appear" as flat tummied, perky breasted, and round bottomed as our 30-something sisters, but peel away the layers and your pretty much stuck with a bottom that looks like an over-ripe orange, sans the green smelly mold God willing, breasts that are drawn to our navel as if it were a magnet, and a mid-section straight out of a butcher's window...marbled, untrimmed brisket.
Trust me fellas, you're turn is coming...in 20 years, but it's coming. By that time, we'll be used to our imperfections to the point of rejoicing in them, yeah right, you heard me rejoicing...not because they are beautiful (there will be those nipped and tucked with whom the average lovely lady cannot compete) but because we're on an even playing ground with you. You, on the other hand, will be just beginning your affair with a body that betrays you.
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