Yes, I’m into my fifties now. Hooray! Each morning I look for another line on my lips. Soon I’ll give up. Maybe there will be so many of them they’ll combine to form a nice new lip again. Yes, I’m kidding.
Somehow women in their fifties seem to get lost, don’t they? We’re not climbing the ladder any longer, and certainly can’t claim any resemblance, physically or otherwise to our thirties and forties.
We’re almost or are done with parenting, but we’re not seniors. We don’t get discounts, we have to hang onto expensive health insurance because we’re not ready for medicare. I don’t care about fancy trips or hotels and actually long for the days we camped out – but guess what? My hips would never take sleeping on the ground any longer.
Our hair has probably a good amount of gray in it by now, but damn if I’ll stop coloring it. It’s the one thing I have that’s still lovely and beautiful – my long brunette hair with auburn highlights – even if they’re created by tinfoil at the beauty parlor.
But I’m going off into a tangent . . . My real issue and pet peeve is, where are our magazines?
I don’t want another literary magazine, or travel magazine. I’m tired of Wall Street, and Beautiful Home, Amish Country, Pioneer Woman, and Sunset.
Where are the things that bring smiles to our age group? Huffington Post? Ha! Either have money so you can travel, be prepared to read articles that promise we can be truly free and uninhibited now with sex–by the way, who in their fifties doesn’t already understand we’re no longer a mystery with each other if you’ve been with your partner any length of time? Oh, and the retirement publications and commercials – stop!
Are you kidding? I’m working harder than ever, even as younger people around me suggest I’m ready to retire and go out of business.
I’ve been trying to reach out to key friendships of my own age group because they’re the only ones who understand the new pain I woke up with, or . . . shit, has my butt dropped a little more?
We struggle with bras, and spanx, and girdles – should we bother any longer? Isn’t it nice just to let everything wiggle free around the house?
And the pills available? Please. Not another aritificial solution which may cause death, or a promise of smooth skin, or looking forty again.
Let’s face it.
We’re 50, we’re beautiful with our fat, our bones, our smiles, and all our lines. And somebody please give me a damn magazine or place I can go to celebrate and rejoice with other women who aren’t faced with articles and blogs and medicines and creams that promise youth.
So where are the articles that just celebrate who we are, where we are, and what we can offer?
Because honey–ain’t no getting back the skin I had twenty years ago.
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