“Do you think that crème is working?” Ania asks, once again meaning, dream on if you think you’re shedding pounds. She then reminds me that I used to exercise more and suggests I put more effort into stomach crunches. She has no idea that I used to have a body like hers. There’s no point in frightening her. Or maybe I already have, which is why she suddenly started working on sit-ups. I don’t want to look like my mother-one, I don’t want to look like my mother-two…
First it’s the old dresses that no longer fit over my breasts. Now it’s the buttons on pants and skirts that won’t close. Did I really think I’d be able to wear the same clothes my entire lifetime? I must have because putting them into bags for the thrift shop is breaking my heart, not because I’m giving them away, but because it is so upsetting to grab something to wear and realize it ain’t happening.
I teach at a university and listen to my male students describe women who are has beens, those that once obviously had it but not anymore. Then their terms for cellulite….their endless descriptions that seem to involve tires, tread, and endless rubber. I’m relieved their banter doesn’t end with a skidmark since they’re always one-upping each other when they get on this topic. I used to overhear them, and figure I was safe since they said it within earshot of me. Now they whisper, and I know I’ve slipped into the has been arena. Now I truly feel old enough to be their mothers, and am probably older than their mothers. Before I didn’t feel like that. How did this happen?
Walking in the woods last week, I found myself in the what if mode. What if I crossed paths with a nice man and….? What if I let any old lovers from long ago who may still be single know that I’ve been thinking maybe we….Right, those old lovers I visited in my thirties. Now I’m forty-eight! Imagine what I’d hear now.
I started thinking about some of our friends who have spent the night lately. One old lover from many years ago visited with his wife and friends recently. All night I heard him get up to use the bathroom. In the morning, I asked if he was feeling well. His wife let me know he’s always up. Then I remembered the other male guests who I’ve heard get up all night long. The prostate dilemma.
I know this sounds shallow, but it’s been so long, perhaps it’s been too long. My memories are of nights from long ago when my lover and I would wake up to have sex, not go to the bathroom. I probably didn’t even know what the prostrate involved in the old days. Just like that, I start to anticipate problems. If I’m worrying about prostates, men will be worrying about menopause. Would I need a lubricant? I haven’t noticed any signs that I’m going through menopause, but I’m sure a lover would point out what I’ve overlooked. If I had been dating all these years, little by little, I’d probably be adjusting to this prostate, just like I adjusted to waking up to nurse my daughter. In my mind, I imagine waking up to the sounds of urinal relief, not sexual relief, and I lose all interest in this pursuit of romance.
After this long gap in time, my body has started to sag, so I doubt I’ll hear any of those kind, encouraging, preparatory words of long ago. Unlike before, I anticipate hearing these words: “Let’s just keep the lights off.” It seems like everything has changed. I can’t imagine undressing. Long ago, I didn’t see much reason to dress.
Walking in the woods, I kept thinking about how complicated things would now be. Everything so foreign. I love a fit man, but now I’d feel intimated by a perfect body. Long ago, I’d be the body nazi pointing out love handles. I’d hate to hear what a lover would call my flesh.
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