It's not everyday I get to write to you and tell you how I truly feel, so do bear with me. Some woman might be offended by what I say, but please remember, I am referring to myself and my feelings, not yours. If you happen to agree - well, wonderful. If you don't: unfortunately, I cannot change what I feel about myself.
Now that I have that off my chest, let me begin.
I am too old to be considered young and beautiful anymore, but I can hold my own among my peers if I decide to splash on enough make-up to impress a fifteen-year-old let loose in a well stocked cosmetics bag. The shadows under my tired eyes dispel the idea that I am a well rested soul; their dark smudges reflect in the silky grey depths, the watery portals to my soul. With every smile I fake, tears appear; a shiny reminder that all is not well within me.
Love is fleeting - less butterfly and more discontented moth! The breeze of battered wings attacks my attempts to hold onto the dissipating passion remaining in a fading relationship that I hold with a man who has more interest in his phone than in me. If I were to become an app, I would probably hold more appeal. This confidence booster makes we weaker to outside attention, any attention to be honest. My feeble attempt to feel like a beautiful woman again would make you cringe when you hear me giggle like a school girl at every young man in the office who cares to share his day with me. Being of a certain age allows me to touch their arms and squeeze those manly biceps as they crack their inane jokes guaranteed to make me laugh like a hyena. I make no apologies for this behaviour. Try to imagine a frumpy, middle aged woman getting some. Yes, I can hear you cackle. Wait till you hit my age; you will be just as desperate!
At least I don’t feel completely alone. The love handles expanding my waistline are my constant companions and hug me close during costume changes. They especially love exposing themselves when I am wearing a swimming costume or tight evening dress. I could do without their love, but seem to have no choice on the matter. Exercise is a curse to any tired, middle aged woman with children to feed and husbands to be ignored by.
“Love yourself. Change your attitude to your body and wear clothes that reveal the inner you!”
Sure. And after that, I will cure cancer and find world peace. Who has time for that stuff? I can barely dress properly and find matching shoes in the morning, let alone be bothered with finding sexy in a mundane wardrobe built to cater for a working class female with chances of crap flying at her throughout the day.
“Wear clothes that reveal the inner you” – yeah sure. You wear something soft and exquisite (yes, that is the inner me!) and take out the dustbin in the morning. Try heels whilst walking your five-year-old to school for Walk To School Week. Come home at lunch time in your pretty silk white shirt and walk the dog for fifteen minutes before rushing back to the daily grind and then, of course, return home to cook dinner in that soft negligée just waiting to be modelled. I’m sure the children and their friends will love that!
I’m not all bitter. There are some chocolatey bits left next to my bedside table that sweeten me up. Having friends who are constantly on diet helps me feel better about myself. After all, who wants to feel they are suffering alone? Coffee mornings consisting of going over what we’ve eaten, the calorie intake and what complete a-holes our husbands are, seems to make us feel better. Woe-betide the friend that manages to reach her perfect body weight before the rest of us. I’m just saying, green does not go with my grey eyes.
Needless to say, I embrace all that life has given me and in those quiet, reflective moments before slumber takes me away to the dream of Chris Helmsworth rescuing me wearing his Thor outfit, I thank my God for all that I have and to protect my annoying family for another day.
Published by Eloise De Sousa