WHEN YOU DISAPPEAR

This blog is dedicated to all the gorgeous females in my life who’ve upped the ante. EISH! 

I have disappeared. People I know now pass me by. Welcome to the world of anonymity. Welcome to the world of elasticated slacks, velcro-strapped orthopaedic sandals, and soft bra tops that do little for swinging chandeliers, but who cares? I do. I weep for my lost youth. Those moments in my life have arrived. Aaaahh! It’s a case of not recognizing myself anymore. In my mind I look young and vibrant, but the mirror belies that fact. 

Passing a huge mirror in a store recently I wondered who the old lady was. I was just about to say hello when the penny dropped (as has everything else). It was ME! I was shocked and decided not to buy this lying fraudulent glass monstrosity. 

Unfortunately, this was just the beginning of the true vision of myself. Yet another mirror, this time in a changing room, threw out a reflection of an old lady with drooping jowls, treble chins, flabby arms and a face of misery. Initially, I thought I was seeing someone else. I looked more closely and my gob fell open. Luckily, I still have my own teeth so at least they couldn’t drop out. I tried to smile but my dry lips were stuck. A grimace appeared. 

My eyes narrowed, disappearing into dark bags. My eyebrows stood to attention. My heart thumped and perspiration slid down my back. Clammy, shocked and overcome, I decided to complain to management. How dare they hang mirrors that lie. I thought they would do the opposite make you look amazing and blind to the flabby body. Did they not want me to buy the bodycon dress, the flamboyant suit, the ten-inch heels? Well, it’s their loss. 

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL 

I’m now avoiding mirrors, and cameras. Will you all please stop using your Iphones to take my photo? Out of order! Or at least give me enough time to apply makeup that doesn’t melt within minutes and duct tape to wrap my chins to the back of the neck. If you wrap it tightly (don’t cut off your air supply) – it will give you an instant face lift. 

I don’t know how to pose and pout. I must get lessons from my granddaughters on the ultimate pose. I tried to practise in front of the mirror, but it cracked. Oh well, another day another dollar, or a caseload of dollars. Perhaps some kind plastic surgeon might be able to fix the melting face, the flabby body and whiten my teeth so that they glow in the dark.

Glow in the dark teeth would be very useful in Cape Town when the electricity is switched off for hours on end – load shedding. I have a load to shed myself. I’ll apply to the Irish government for a grant. After all, they give grants for double glazing. 

HOW DO THEY DO IT? 

Although my eyesight is declining, I still see all the glamorous and gorgeous females on the streets. No! No! Not the ladies of night. The classy broads who stride with confidence. The classy broads with sophisticated hairstyles and perfect make-up. They have the knowledge! They know how to enhance and look amazing. How and where did they learn that? I did ask a few and they said it was good genes. Really! Even worse they were all in their early seventies, or so they said. Perhaps that’s the secret. When you’re in your sixties lie, lie, lie. Take at least 20 years off your date of birth.

And whilst they stride out in their classy shoes, I’m wearing my granny sandals and hefty padded trainers. I can glide – well more of a slide as I traverse indoors. The floor tiles help. Outdoors is a different story. I hobble and grunt, stop and start. The starting bit takes a while. My body screams out for bionic hips, knees and ankles and hands that do what they should. Come on fingers, you’re not supposed to drop stuff. Besides, I can’t bend down to pick it up. Well, I do try, but half an hour later I’m still in an ungainly yoga pose. 

“THEY’RE NOT FOR YOU.” 

Recently, I decided to try on a pair of Christian Louboutin boots, just for the craic, as you do. A flurry of assistants ran over to me, with expressions of horror, and emitted a chorus of words no woman should ever hear. 

“Madam, please do not try on those boots. They’re not for you.” 

Those last four words were also uttered to me in a department store in Cape Town pre-Covid, when I was slim and trim and a regular gym bunny. I was looking at swimsuits and happily made my final choice. A nearby assistant coughed to get my attention. You know, the cough that’s not a cough. Why do people do that? Verbosity is a lot more welcome – usually. She took the swimsuit from my hands and uttered the words – “That’s not for you.” I was so gob smacked I couldn’t reply. She was well gone before a smart retort came to mind. 

That always happens – the words you’d wished you’d said, but your brain doesn’t engage your gob fast enough.

THE ALTERNATIVE 

Can I accept how I look? What can I personally do to bring about a wee improvement. Head to toe Spanx should work, but somehow pushes all the unruly body bits upwards and flattens the boobs. 

Have you ever noticed all the svelte women at a wedding? Flat tummies and toned thighs poured into body con dresses. Halfway through the celebration there’s a queue outside the ladies’ powder room. One by one they emerge with a smile of relief. Tummies now bulge and midriffs and thighs wobble. Spanx is stuffed into their handbags, or the brave ones have binned them. Sense comes with age. 

The one good fact about all this, one that brings a naughty smile to my lips, is that all my gorgeous young nieces and friends have the wobbles ahead of them. I will have the last laugh. The truth is I know they’ll always be glam gorgeous females. It truly is in their genes because their mums don’t need to lie about their age or use duct tape. They are all gorgeous. 

STRUT YOUR STUFF 

Many years ago, I knew a lady in London who was in her early fifties. She always wore high heels indoors. She was a ballroom dancer – hence the heels. Anyway, to cut a long story short (that’ll be the day), she took a trip to Moscow and had permanent eyeliner and lip liner tattooed. Perhaps that’s the secret to not having melting-smudged make up. I really Mos-Cow. 

The load-shedding candles cast my face into mysterious shadows. High cheekbones. Pouty lips and a jaw to die for. Legs that are more than ten inches long and a toned bod clad in high-end designer. I strut and stride making you all so totally jealous, or as some say – “I’m so jeal.” I bask in my own beauty. It’s all in the mind.

Read my blog: AN INTERVIEW WITH MYSELF

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