Yesterday an old friend said to me, “You are well-preserved for your age.”
Well preserved? Hello? Do I look like a glob of Smuckers?
While genetics play a big part in determining how we look by the time our grandkids are married with kidlets of their own, so does that free dose of Vitamin D we call sunshine. It was supposed to be good for us. So who knew?
We of the celebrated peaches and cream complexions (aka Southern Belles) feel that living South of the Mason-Dixon Line is comparable to taking up residence at the legendary Eternity Spa.
“Well, fiddly dee,” laments my Scarlett alter-ego while batting Llama eyes heavy with mascara. “Southerners don’t need those resort spas. We’ve got humidity.”
That’s also what my mother always said and she had great skin. She left it to me as part of my inheritance when she died. No money, just good skin, but I’m not complaining. Without her peaches and cream inheritance, I would have been given the Smucker’s label years ago.
Mama was generous enough to leave me her hands too, but I only discovered that legacy the other day while trying to tie my shoes without falling on my face and breaking my daddy's inherited nose.
“Yikes! How did these old hands get attached to my arms,” I yelled out loud.
What used to be the things I kept manicured were covered with dark reddish brown spots as though they had been painted on. In shock, I naturally began to wonder about other body parts, ones I had not seen for a while. Like my navel.
That is when I found a dark dot near my belly button. No doubt another gift from my ever generous mother. I tried to brush off the dot but it wouldn’t move. I grabbed my 10X magnifying mirror to see if a tick had attached itself to my once-flat tummy. What if it had been actively sucking away my life’s blood? That might account for my low energy.
Looking more closely, I found five more tick-sized dots. Slowly, I inched the 10X mirror up toward my waist to examine my once-firm breasts, the ones that were gradually drooping down to say howdy to my navel. And there in plain, magnified site were Miss Georgia, Miss Tennessee, Miss Alabama, all flaunting their dots like Miss America contestants.
I know now that my friend yesterday was just being polite when he told me I was well preserved. I am not. Like many other women my age who are growing dark dotted thingies all over their body maps, I’m just another Botox candidate with a glob or two of Smucker’s on her well-done biscuits.