Never in my wildest dreams could I have known
the day was coming. Never was there a glimpse, glance, let alone a gaze lent to
that covert patch of litmus flesh. How could any of us have known?
We’d been bombarded with the miracle eye creams, wrinkle plumping serums, and “cover that gray” hair dye ads since birth. But
this clandestine tell tale pocket went undetected until it was too late.
This is not an "I hate my body, only youth is beautiful" propaganda post. It is however, a "woah for reals guys, this most natural thing in the world is actually uber strange" post. So if you can deal with my real...read on.
The first round of “don’t know what you got
til it’s gone” debuted post childbirth, that smooth flawless taut belly skin.
Love handle? What’s that? Followed by the fast fading ass to thigh demarcator,
and then the “Girls Gone Wilted” post breastfeeding funeral.
How many youthful mirrored moments were spent
blinking back teenage tears, all of my luscious, fresh bloom eclipsed by my war
against zits? My babysitting fortune repeatedly plundered by Noxzema and
Clearasil promises that never delivered anything beyond interesting smells and
some red flaky dry patches. Meanwhile the
smooth supple zit free skin that covered 99.9% of my sweet lil body went
unnoticed.
We all go through it cellulite, spider veins,
and the general entropy of the Earth suit. Still I feel like I’m actually the
first, last, and only woman who will ever traverse this human aging sojourn.
Adrift in a sea of my entire generation I suspect I am alone in this. I’m the
only vain broad in the bunch. Everyone else gets out alive and in tact. My
bullshit story and yet…
Back to the latest shock, I attributed it to
ill-fitting bras. Where is this strange textured stuff coming from? Is it my
boob, arm, armpit? Is it fat, or is it skin? What is going on here? Help,
someone come quick, bring duct tape, and maybe some Windex or hemorrhoid cream
too.
I had over 40 years to admire my armpits, and
never, not once did it happen. Hidden beneath deodorant, tucked so neatly under
my arm was this lovely little spread of tidy not going anywhere epidermis.
Right up until it went. I’m watching now, (call me an ageist) I’m in the know.
I see the next phase, I’ve noticed how it spread down my older friend’s entire
upper arms. Everyday I’m reminding myself to look beyond the armpit goo to
lovingly appreciate the parts of me I’ll be wishing I had appreciated.
I want to be graceful about all this, taking
it in stride as I assure all the babes around me that we got nothing to worry
about. Keep calm and age on sisters? Fuck I don’t know, this is weird shit and
it’s only just begun. Frankly I’m tired of some of my “ultra spiritual, love
light and rainbow” peers saying it doesn’t matter, I think they’re lying. I bet
deep down it makes most of us a tad bit squirmy. Can we just admit that? Everything
else up until this point: heart break, child birth, divorce, loved ones
passing, and losing my religion, was only basic training for the biggest
challenge ahead. The slow and steady deterioration of the body I was finally
getting used to, just learning to love, is the main event.
A friend of mine who volunteered in war torn
countries, told me about sitting with groups of refugee women. These women had
lost children, husbands, seen their entire villages burned to the ground. Once
the initial shock had worn off and a state of normalcy had returned, the
conversations sounded similar to what one might hear in a LA salon. “My hair
looks awful, my grays are showing, this stress has given me new wrinkles, did
you hear so and so is sleeping with blahblahblah” Yeah, same old tiring drivel.
WTH? I only judge because I had hoped to point the finger of blame on my
western privilege and having never experienced something truly worth
complaining about.
Lately I’ve read articles and heard lectures
about new advancements in extending human life via interesting stem cell magic
and other sciencey voodoo. While this certainly appeals to my immediate vanity
and the primal urge to cling to life, something else in me shudders. I remember
reading some new age thoughts on growing old years ago. The author surmising
the reason we age and die is because we believe that we have to. I think back
to my old English sheep dog, Chauncey, lying cold to the touch. I doubt she was
busy believing in the aging process, plagued with the fear that she would
someday die, and yet she did. Trees, animals, humans and all of nature dies, so
something new can be born. Defying that feels like more human egoic lack of
foresight. BTW, the author making these claims has long since gone gray and
aged like the rest of his generation.
What if this fantastic bizarre freak show
called life, as grand as it maybe, is only a larvae stage in our development? This
death of the Earth suit is a transition, not an ending. In my mind’s eye I see
us all standing in line outside the amusement park. Some of us get through the
gate, while those left in line mourn, making up all kinds of stories as to
what’s on the other side of the gate. Doctrines and dogmas emerge to be fought
over. Some who are in line devote all of their focus, study, and time to
ensuring we stay in line even longer, as if this is all there ever is or will
be. We fight hard to hold our place in line and slow down the inevitable “death
march” into the amusement park.
(It’s all a story anyway, so why not this
one?)
In closing, if you’re young, enjoy your
armpit skin while it’s barely noticeable. If you’re moving up in the line, fuck
it, wear a tank top anyway, or don’t. If it feels weird and uncomfortable to
watch your body change in ways you never expected, you’re not alone. You are one of the beautiful messy imperfect humans, like the rest of us. I have no 5 step magic method to offer you, no pills, smoothies, meditations, miracle suit, or seminar. Trust me none of know what the heck we're doing, so put your seatbelt on sister, here we go.
