My ears did not stick out this far when I was fat
So now that I’m obsessing less over my weight (because, you know, I can do thin people things now like Tie My Own Shoes and Climb The Stairs!) I find that I’m instead obsessing over other parts of my body. I’m strangely fascinated by the state of my cuticles. The grey hairs that are in desperate need of camouflage. Could that really be the beginning of a moustache? The skin on my face is obviously no longer young. But wait, could that possibly be a….?
Wrinkle.
I have wrinkles. There, I said it. When the face was pleasantly plump there were no wrinkles. Now there are. Little crows feet along the eyes. Lines around my mouth that seem to suggest I spend the majority of the day either beaming like a drooling idiot or practicing different deliveries of the letter E. Not that those two activities are necessarily mutually exclusive. But wrinkles.
That’s right, just when you thought it couldn’t possibly get more shallow, she starts bitching about itty bitty wrinkles.
Although to be honest, the little lines on my face don’t really bother me. Much. The line that disturbs me is actually south of there. Gash. Gorge. There is no word to properly describe the giant Permawrinkle. I’ve got the Grand Canyon of creases etched across my throat, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to go away. The line that commemorates the location where chin number two gently rolled itself into chin number three. Proof there was once a fold of flab where now there is just a chin and a half.
I was obese, and my body will forever be changed by it. My knees are a little crankier than they should be at my age. Stretchmarks on the thighs. A big fucking wrinkle dividing my neck into North and South. I need to make peace with the parts of my body I cannot change. Hair can be streaked, nails extended, unibrows separated, but there is no turning the time completly back. No matter how fabulously talented your surgeon may be. This must be accepted, if not enjoyed. Suck it up and become One with the wrinkle.
Wrinkles.
Gawd help us all when I turn 30.
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When I turn 30. Heh. A few of my archives remain from the first go ’round, and I was poking around trying to find my old progress chart (what can I say, I’m a masochist on a mission), when I stumbled upon this old post.
Just a quick update: I’ll be thirty in three months, and currently have three-and-a-half chins. The Mason-Dixon gorge on my neck has been replaced with gently rolling hills. I broke up with my stylist and have given in to the grey hair. I have new stretchmarks on my stomach (the most dangerous place to carry extra fat), and I have trouble getting in and out of my car. Given current trajectory, expect to see me in about 10 years, starring on my own Discovery Channel special in which they cut me out of the condo with the Jaws of Life then cut to an interview with my husband:
“Sir, why did you keep feeding her baked brie and gravy?”
“She threatened to eat one of the cats.”
“I see. And how many cats do you have?”
“Now? Just the one. I went away for the weekend.”
