Now, before you begin to wonder, “does this woman not have an un-posted thought? let me just say that we all have a junk drawer. You know the one, bits, bobs, knobs and knockers. Mine has about five old mobile phone batteries and a few lira, francs and pesetas. And, oh no, here’s an envelope with one of Emma’s baby teeth! Does that mean that I forgot to be the tooth fairy, or that I remembered and chucked the tooth in a drawer without thought? I don’t know which scenario is worse. It’s not like I can ask her.
But, I digress, which hardly seems possible since I haven’t even embarked. So, the junk drawer. Since I’ve started this blog, it feels as if I’m cleaning out the junk drawer in my head. Only, it’s not really junk–at least I hope it’s not. It’s stuff, to be sure. And, in with the stuff, I’ve found little bits of fluff, some spare change (enough for a coffee at that cafe?), a band-aid for that old hurt I’ve reopened, and, look, chocolate! So, I take the stuff out, piece by piece and decide whether it’s worth keeping, sharing, even. Well, some is chocolate, and some just ain’t.
Recently, I had a dermatologist appointment. It was at Guy’s and St. Thomas’s Hospital. You have to walk across Westminster Bridge to get to it. To my right, Parliament and Westminster Abbey, lovely! To my left, the London Eye, meh. Below me, the Thames and, what’s that in front of me? A bagpiper. Oh. The very name of the hospital made me think of my appointment as “Ye Olde Mole Patrole.” When the doctor found something on her patrol I wanted her to shout, “Halt! Who goes there?!” Instead she just said, “Right, that has to come off.” And so it did. It was on my back and I was tempted to ask her to lop off that hump I’ve developed along with the ‘spot of bother.’
When I thought about the hump it made me think about aging and how I’ve kind of slid, sideways, into my fifties. There, you say, there’s the stuff she mentioned. Up until only months ago I thought I looked pretty damn good (I am not soliciting compliments, but if needs must). Then, the other day I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, sort like you look at strangers on the bus with you: quick flick of your eyes to theirs, and then away. Yep, there it was, 51, written all over my face. It looked disappointed somehow, my face, as if I’d let it down, instead of the other way around. A friend told me that it was hard not being the prettiest girl at the party anymore. She’s right of course, not that I was all that. I wasn’t, and I’d easily come to terms with getting older because I really did think I was getting better–on the inside at any rate.
Being born pretty and growing old is like being born rich and growing poor. I can’t remember who said that but I know I repeated it to my older son, James, who is sometimes so pretty it hurts to look at him (at least to his mother). I was in the midst of a fight with him over how lazy he was (is) and my point was that he should develop some skills other than how to gel his hair just so. Now, I find the pretty/old:rich/poor analogy offensive–not to mention the use of it with my then-19-year-old son. “Look at me,” I want to snap at the guests at that party where I’m not the prettiest anymore. No, wait, “Listen to me,” is what I mean. I am wise and funny and game and strong. I am so much more interesting than that girl over there, the one in the short skirt who’s legs seem to go on forever. Then, because I am wise and funny, etc., etc. I think, fuck it, I don’t need acknowledgment, I know who I am.
Of course I’ve put this all down in a blog because I am incredibly shallow and self-absorbed. I guess I’ll just eat that chocolate now.