Parts of me don’t mind that I’m older. But the parts that have played tug-of-war with gravity and lost, well, my only option is to set myself up for so many lifts that my belly button ends up on my chin. Nah. I’m just waving the white flag of surrender; of course it’s slathered with some promising goop that guarantees my skin cells will be blasted back to infancy. In Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott (who, if she knew me, I’m sure would want to be friends with me) refers to her jiggling thighs as “the aunties.” Endearing. Me? I’m trying to stop thinking of mine as tribes of nomadic terrorist cells. And then there’s the issue that I am (gulp) eight years older than my husband. When I was 16 and headed to the make-up counters, he was home watching cartoons. Oh, wait. Maybe that was this weekend. Seriously, I am determined that no one will ever ask him, “Where are you and your mother going out for dinner tonight?” hence, high maintenance–that’s me.
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