Mirror, Mirror

Like a lot of women my age, I'm having a tough time reconciling the image greeting me in the mirror every morning. It sounds crazy but I'm still a little shocked every time I meet up with my current incarnation. You would think I would have gotten used to the crinkles around my eyes and the creases around my mouth but you would be wrong. I still hope against hope that those expensive potions I slather on myself every night will somehow work their promised miracles while I sleep and my morning reflection will be that of my younger, line-free self. So far, not even close.

But that's really not the worst of it; at least it's not for me. I can deal with a few wrinkles and gray hair. Slap on a little eye cream and a box of Clairol and I'm good to go. No, the aspect of aging I'm having the most trouble with is decidedly south of my shoulders. You see, I was always one of those people that everyone hated. I was the one who could eat anything and never gain a pound. I could polish off half a pizza, wash it down with a Big Gulp and top it off with three or four cupcakes and never have to buy a new pair of jeans. Now all I have to do is look at a cupcake and I have to loosen a button. (Those of you who are delighting in reading this are now dead to me.)

And here's something else. The other day, I heard a frightening statistic on the radio. This "helpful" tidbit informed me that it takes one hour of exercise every day to maintain post-menopausal weight. Maintain. Hearing that news propelled me, not to the nearest gym as you might think, but to the nearest Dunkin Donuts. If I had to exercise for an hour, I damn well needed some additional energy.

I'm not saying that I don't appreciate getting older. The alternative certainly doesn't hold much appeal and the wisdom and sense of self acquired with the passing of time might even be worth the trade-off of flexibility and physical dexterity. After a suitable mourning period, I have finally accepted the reality that I no longer have the possibility of a double axel in my future. I have also accepted that I'm unlikely to get any better at tennis than I already am. But I don't think I'll ever get used to manipulating that spare tire into my jeans. And while I'm on the subject, what the heck do I do with the flab under my bra? Where exactly is that supposed to go?

I'm not stupid. I know there are things I should be doing to combat these pesky problems. I'm supposed to watch what I eat. I'm supposed to work out with weights. I'm supposed to take a Zumba class. All good ideas.

If my unfocused brain allows me to remember to do any of them, I'll be sure to let you know.