Sunday, February 2, 2014

On Ageing

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MoreThanCheeseandBeer

Today's Sunday Confession prompt:
AGEING

On Friday, I posted a nice long blog post about being Stoic.  That post started as my Sunday Confession.  Because the truth is, I'm not afraid of dying.  I'm not afraid of the end.  I'm not afraid of the actual thing itself.  The truth is...I'm more afraid of ageing. 

Every time I go into the bathroom with the intent to take a shower, I take off all of my clothes and look at myself in the mirror.  I pick pimples look at my blemishes.  I jiggle some part that is looking squishier than I remember it being just to see if it actually is.  I stare at my tits and sigh at the bigger boob.  I push my boobs up farther on my chest and wonder what it must be like to have tiny, perky tits and wonder what life is like for women that don't require a bra to go out in public.  I lean over and try to figure out just how much bigger the bigger boob is.  Then, I make all of the faces that make my forehead and the space between my eyes wrinkle and check to see if the lines have grown deeper or more noticeable.  I take my fingers and lifting upwards at the temples to see if it makes a difference.  I suck in my cheeks and make fish lips.  

I don't know what I'm going to do when I actually spot a wrinkle.  I can tell my skin is already losing some elasticity.  Every time I do my body inspection, I vow to wash my face and use moisturizer ad sunscreen.  Sometimes I wonder how much damage I did tanning, if any, but I still think about going back.  And I have to admit to myself that I'm probably already screwed. 

A friend I've known since I was thirteen turned 29 last week.  For some reason, his birthday always serves as a reminder of my upcoming birthday.  I've cried on my birthday every year since I have turned 18 for one reason or another.  Usually because I feel like another year has passed and I'm still living a life that is completely different than what I thought it was going to be. And every year I wonder if life with always be this way for me. 

I don't have kids.  I don't know that I ever will even meet someone I want to have children with, and I don't think I have what it takes to make the conscious decision to be a single parent.  And perhaps this is the most old fashioned argument ever, but I feel like I look awful old for my age...who would be interested in me anyway.

So, without kids...who will take care of me someday?  A stranger?  I was one of those strangers who takes care of the elderly.  I hugged little old ladies and let them kiss me.  I helped dress frail looking old men in pajamas.  It was one of the most rewarding and frightening learning experiences of my life.  My first resident at the nursing home was 105.  I didn't think she was really aware of where she was, or who I was until I realized that she always called me "Angel" and she didn't call anyone else that.  Sometimes, she would beg me to take her home with me.  She had been in the nursing home for more than 10 years.  I cried when they gave her last rites.  Then she pulled through and lived another 9 months.  I can't imagine what it must be like relying on someone else to take care of me, which is why I've always put love into caring for others.  But knowing I can't stand to ask anyone for help as it is, how will I ever let someone who doesn't know me or love me help me when I can no longer help myself?

I'm terrified of the future.  I hate Ageing.