Monday, August 6, 2012

On birthdays, aging and that "joie de vivre"

My birthday is coming up.   I hesitate to announce it since I don't like too much attention.

Considering my chronological age, I can confidently state that I still possess my original teeth, joints, fingernails, breasts and hair.  

I am though having difficulty discerning the difference between what is a hot flash and what is a reaction to recent weeks trapped in an unbearably sticky summer.

On the one hand, my front teeth seem too big, and my breasts seem too small. Heard this since adolescence...

On the other hand, the joints are relatively flexible and the hair is still a healthy, natural blonde mane sans des produits cosmétiques. 

On neither hand are bangles, rings, fake nails or polish.    

I wonder how women can function with fingernails longer than an eighth of an inch?  Is that hygienic or safe?  Is it even functional?  I'd be afraid of hurting myself or scratching a male companion.  Oh, right.  It's coming back to me...

And the colour - how the heck do you ensure the nail colour doesn't clash with your outfit choice each day?  I suppose one could make exceptions as an Olympic athlete - as long as it goes with the bronze, silver or gold! 

Who has the time or expendable income to frequently apply toxic substances and artificial colours.  Then there's the stuff you need to remove the polish a few weeks later. It is a rare occasion that I will apply a thin, clear layer after a quick trim and filing.  At least once it starts chipping, it's not as noticeable as with "cherry red" or "goth black".  The whole thing seems like a waste of resources and time - time I could spend reading or napping!

Speaking of artificial colour jobs: In the past two weeks five people have complimented or challenged the legitimacy of my natural blondness.  Why should it be so surprising that I don't colour or bleach my hair?  The only reality-altering liquid that comes out of a bottle in my petit apartment is wine and sometimes that just makes me giddy, sentimental or more apt to converse en Français.

Yep. Being a natural blonde has been a blessing and a curse for many years.  Poor me.  It has also been an assumed invitation for family and friends to send me copious emails containing dumb blonde jokes. Sigh.

Without seeming too vain, I hope that similar to my dear old Dad's, my hair will gradually change to platinum then morph into a mature silver-gray by the time I reach retirement age.  I also hope to inherit his folksy disposition, keep my mind and hands skillfully busy and continue to maintain a sense of awe.  

According to Psychology Today, if you want to know your true age, don't look at the calendar.  Don't do it!  Put it away.  (I have the same advice for bathroom scales.)   The article states there's a difference between your biological and psychological age.  I don't mind growing old, as long as happens gracefully.  Sometimes I just don't want to grow up

Again, I hesitate to announce MY UP-COMING BIRTHDAY  since family and friends may feel compelled to cover the cake with forty-some candles.  Considering that could be a fire hazard during our drought-like conditions, I advise them to use only one candle.  Tell them to make sure the CAKE contains CHOCOLATE.  A bottle of wine is optional.

- - - 

Goodness!  How I have rambled on.  Is that a sign of aging or an inane urge to share my deep blonde thoughts?  

Thanks for dropping by.  If you liked this blog entry, you can sample wine excerpts from my novel, The Year of the Rabbit.  

(Au sujet du Français, j'ai besoin de quelque gens qui peuvent m'aider traduire le roman en Français (gratuit) durant 2013 et peut être 2014.  C'est fou - ou un bon idée?)


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