Sarcomical

Punch Out the Slasher

I was born into a heritage of women who look perpetually young for their age. These fortunate genes appear to have cleverly and deceptively delayed the appearance of aging parallel to my years for quite some time. For instance, in college I felt downright juvenile. At 23-24, I was often asked when applying for part-time jobs if I had graduated yet from high school. When I interviewed for more serious jobs at 27-28, I was given the Eye of Skepticism by older women who assumed I was there freshly out of college. I was carded for an R-rated movie as recently as last year (okay, while that is true, even I find that ridiculous). All of this is to say that yes, though it has on occasion been annoying, I have always known that as a lady, I would be a bloody fool to have a problem with looking younger than I am.

AHA, but you see, I am now 33. THIRTY-THREE. You can run, but you can not hide, sucker. Up until this past year I have never given a second thought to gravity, or joints, or noticed anything changing on my face aside from the bags that take over my reflection on certain mornings like two gray, flat butt cheeks under my eyes.

Suddenly, I am realizing just how much my laziness has begun to catch up with me, much as the killer in those slasher movies who appears in the medicine cabinet mirror behind the infuriatingly stupid woman who takes a steamy bath in the dark, empty two-story Victorian after her next door neighbor and all of her friends have been murdered, and then gets out, loosely drapes her towel around her chest and leaves the water running while she's reaching into the cabinet to put her toothbrush away, ensuring that she will have ZERO chance to hear said slasher coming up the stairs and then she shuts it and BAM! Cue the eee!-eee!-eee! music and HIS MENACING REFLECTION IS BEHIND HER.

My once naturally (and maddeningly to others) narrow limbs and flab-free stomach have been slightly losing ground under my lackadaisical care. I have only just recently (and merely a few times before that) even bothered to dedicate myself to any workout because I know that I can ALMOST be as lazy as I want if I just eat right and don't mind turning a blind eye toward the state of my ass.

I have never quite managed to maintain a truly steady facial routine, partly because I skip around with products quite a bit, and I admit I have more often that I'd like to divulge gone to bed without washing my face at all. I am now seeing some lines here and there that actually dare to linger a few seconds after a facial expression no longer requires their services, and I am becoming increasingly disturbed by the crease I notice in my neck after a few hours spent mindnumbingly bent over my keyboard. WHAT THE HELL?

I have back "issues" (even worse than I did as a tense young person who had deplorably sluggish posture) and as such I occasionally find myself getting up from a seated position and walking in a bent, staggering shape for a moment which TO MY HORROR I recognize as the exact stance I have seen my mother-in-law hobble along in during holiday gatherings after a long day. LO, I AM ELDERLY!

I'm beginning to hit the realization that if I don't crack down, and crack down HARD, the best I will ever have looked in my life is about 3-5 years behind me, and oh my God that is not even remotely acceptable. Not only will I have already looked my best, but I will have already felt my best, and I have to tell you I imagined the best feeling better than I have yet experienced, so I am at Critical Hour Code Orange here. While I am by no means a ragged mess, I am not setting myself up to be the hottest grandma at the pool, or perhaps something that sounds less gross than that, but you get my point.

Now...excuse me, I have to go bench press a refrigerator or run to Canada after I apply an oxygenating facial mask.

Magnetic Serenity

Dear Jennifer from Whole Foods,

A little over a week ago, I came into the store to replenish my stock of deliciousness from the magic wall of snack bins, which usually has a tendency to make me very giddy. This day, however, I was feeling mentally and emotionally sandpapered in a way that could not be soothed by large plastic scoopers and giant tubs of strawberry/raspberry granola or carob spirulina energy blocks. No, not even the sweet faces on the animal cookies could provide any comfort.

I just remember feeling low and somewhat removed from myself. I was tired, a little sad and a lot overwhelmed. I'm sure I must have looked serious when I came up to your register, because I know at times when I'm feeling perfectly pleasant I have a naturally down-turny mouth, even when I SWEAR I think I'm smiling a little. But on this day, I felt admittedly droopy, and I was gearing up to begin the Service Person/Detached Customer with Averted Eyes Interaction, UNTIL...

You started talking to me. Okay, at first I admittedly resisted and mumbled a bit, something like "uh-hmm, yeah..." in reply to your request if I'd found everything I needed, because as is the tendency when someone with my temperament gets caught in their headspace, I sort of wanted to remain the hermit crab wallowing in its sad wee shell. But then I looked up at the moment you asked if I was having a good day, and you said it as gently and sincerely as possibly anyone has ever said it to me and you locked into my gaze as if you were really trying to find a response in my eyes that I was okay. So profound was the sensation of your goodwill and genuinely peaceful smile that it knocked me a little off guard.

I have to be honest; I am usually the type of person who detests - DETESTS - mindless chit-chat with a stranger, mostly because I am very sensitive to tone and picking up people's vibes, and the moment I sense superficiality or ingenuity a switch flips in my brain and I get very turned off and want to get out of there. But, as you continued to ask me about my peace t-shirt (holy wow, I am starting to sound very hippy-dippy in this post, aren't I?) and told me about the pigeons you used to feed when you lived in Montana, and how there was one white one who would always show up with the rest of them and we began to wonder out loud if doves are basically white pigeons, I was drawn to your grounded calm, your magnetic serenity. It was something I rarely come across but am always drawn to. During our brief exchange I was struck by the positive energy you had shone into my life at just the moment I needed it. I came out of that place much lighter and breathing freer. Thank you so much for that.

Jennifer, cashier at Whole Foods and rare soul...I think if I see you again I am going to ask if you want to meet one afternoon for coffee.

Until then,

Melissa from A House Not Far Away

Life's Little Lessons: "Cute" is all in your head.

Here's what I've learned:

You will never accurately estimate how cute you are in a given day. This can be easily proven with a sneaky and/or ambush photograph taken of you by some jerk (let's call them, Your Husband...or Your Nerdy Co-Worker Who Can't Keep His Hands Off His iPhone,...or A Toddler High On Pixie Stix) who doesn't have the decency to give you a respectable lead time for preparing your angles and whatnot before snapping away.

Once you see this photo (and you WILL see it, because the aforementioned jerk ALWAYS wants to show off his work immediately and to anyone within a quarter mile), you will either be pleasantly surprised by a perfect curl or glowing skin...or deeply horrified by your miserly posture, sickly pallor, wonky eye, random bulging area, gigantic squirrel cheeks, shockingly flat hair, phantom zit, etc., etc., etc.

No matter which way that glorious wind blows, your own estimation of your cuteness will never - not in the slightest - be remotely correct.