The ‘I’m Getting Old’ Myth

I’m getting old. It feels weird to look at my arms and see skin hanging off the muscle like wrinkled fabric. I still have really good muscles but the skin, OMG! The thighs are just as bad but I make it a point not to look at them.

Others my age cover their arms. I refuse. That’s part of the adjustment. How vain do I need to be? It’s a valid question. How vain do I need to be to continue to support the image of who I am, or an image of what I want others to believe I am?

We need to assimilate age, to accept it and become it. Otherwise we succumb to the impossible quest for eternal youth like Dolly Parton (71) or her counterpart old whatshisname Kenny Rogers (79)! They’ve been under the knife so many times that there probably isn’t an inch of flesh anywhere that hasn’t been sliced, pulled up, and tacked in place.

Dolly PartonKenny Rogers

And what are those glove thingy’s that Dolly’s wearing! Probably a distraction to camouflage really old hands!
I’m on a rant, but I’m finished now. Don’t, however, tell me that getting old beats the alternative even though it does, so far. The 50’s ease us into the idea. Oh yeah, I have a laugh line here or an eye-wrinkle there, and oh yeah, I need bifocals. Then we’re 60. Things still aren’t too bad if the lights are low.
But hold on to your perky tits, darlings, it’s a slippery slope from there!
So here’s what I’m saying. If there’s too much identity linked to the packaging, getting old is going to be a very difficult, or a very expensive proposition. But if life gets richer, raunchier, and more succulent with each passing year, a subtle exchange occurs. We turn inside-out. I kid you not. The inner workings of the mind, our passions and dreams, become paramount and the carcass is just a vehicle to get us from point A to point B.
Which behooves me to say, take good care of that carcass!

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