Good Morning.
Getting ready to leave the house is a reality check for me. For openers I have to deal with my hair. A year ago, I wore it in a bun thing on the top of my head the way I did when I was twenty-five, but somehow I didn't look the same. Then I saw a picture in a magazine of a really cool woman about fifty and got it cut to a shorter length, but I don't look like her either. My stylist applies a bottle of dye to my head every six weeks. but that doesn't take care of the gray in my eyebrows. I sit at my desk with a hand mirror and a tweezers, but by the time I've extracted the lighter material, half my eyebrows are gone. I decide to leave my lashes alone, preferring to use some mascara, a product that also works well to paint the gray that turns up at my temples just before my next appointment with the stylist. I have given up fussing with eyeliner because even though my hand is still fairly steady, my eyelids, once delicate and silken, do not lend themselves to anything requiring precision today.
The foundation, advertised to take ten years off my face, is cracking like that on an old house, and the blush that I hope will put the bloom back on the rose only makes it wilt. My hands resemble corduroy, the narrow wale variety, except the wales go every which way. A lotion may soften them, but the only way to smooth them out is to make a fist, an unfortunate gesture at best. My feet are somewhat better but only because they're full of potatoes and pasta. Polishing my toes is an interesting challenge that requires breathing in a manner commonly taught in childbirth classes.
Which brings me to the matter of clothing. I favor slacks with elastic waistbands and fabrics that expand rather than contract. I like tops that extend to my knees and scarves that cover up my neck. I haven't worn a strand of pearls in years because it doesn't sit evenly anymore, and I wouldn't even consider a shoe with a heel over half an inch. I carry Vera Bradley bags in an attempt to look festive, but I lost my sun glasses somewhere so the look is just not complete. And of course there's all that foolishness of the shuffle that is my gait, not of choice but of necessity.
A wall in my stairwell is covered with crumpled up parcel post paper that provides a certain texture. The interior designers say the effect is all the rage, so that is how I will look at myself going forward: I am not wrinkled, I am textured. Hell, I'm an architectural wonder.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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