Someone commented yesterday that I don't look my age. Given that most people in polite society are hardly likely to say "My God, Kate, you look like a hag", I took very little notice, but being a shallow sort of person I grabbed a mirror a little later and peered at my 'now only five years years to fifty' face. I don't look much different than I did last Friday. Hmm.
But would it matter if I did? Would they like me/loathe me anymore than they do already? Do I judge a person by the life that shows on their face? I hope not.
On the whole the body is a very clever machine but I haven't figured out why my hair started to lose its colour at 16, or why it now feels the need to start sprouting body hair in some very astounding places (thank you Debi for reminding me). These are not the fine body hair of youth but some mean, wiry buggers who seem valiantly intent on trying to keep my aging body warm all by themselves. No amount of lotions or potions will keep them dead.
Recently a friend had a boob job. We all (because you can't help it) gathered around and admired their new found perky upstandiness. "I love them." she declared "They make me feel younger". There were a lot of quips about 'the woman you feel' but it got me thinking to what lengths would I go to hang onto a body that has decided to migrate south?
The answer was not very far. Filling my face with poison or stuffing myself with foreign objects does not appeal and having a tummy tuck always seems a bit like pulling a wrinkly pair of stockings up - eventually they fall down again.
Life and my children gave me this body and I am a strong believer that what is on the inside shows on the outside.
Anyway, I am still looking fab in me bikini....