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Aging. not so fucking Gracefully


So. I’m watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. On a very large high def television. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
It was just truly frightening. A horror of which Amityville could never imagine.
It was also one of the saddest things I’ve ever been subjected to.
Each and every line on their face, covered in about 86 lbs of foundation. Liver spots highlighted and on display. Scars. Bumps. Wrinkly hands decorated with big cocktail rings and fake nails perfectly polished. Every single botox injection point. The years and years of nips and tucks and pulling and stretching and injecting. Until they barely looked human. Until the one housewives lips, literally looked like they were going to fall right off of her face. Right there. On the floor. On live t.v. I was on pins and needles waiting for it.

Once I tried to burn all my Barbie’s in my “feminists of the world united” bon fire in my backyard. The result was pretty much what I saw on tv last night.
Synthetic singed blonde hair.
Melted skin.
Sagging knee caps.
All struggling to still fill out the same body form it once was.
I shudder to think what was hidden beneath the sequin dresses, and elaborate diamond jewels.

This year I turn 30. Which, to me, is the end of my life.
Please please. Stop your “30 is the new 20” mantra right now. NOTHING is 20 BUT 20. Nothing. Even by 21 you’re already 10 years older from all the drinking you’ve done in the past year. 20 is 20 and that is it.
I’ve spent over $500 in the past year on facial creams, anti-aging lotions, collagen enriched serums. But we all know that lies beneath.
Once that make up is off.
Once those clothes are off.
You are a 30 year old mother. You, are a real woman. Not a Barbie. Not an actress. Not a model. You are a real woman aging in America.
You, my dear, are officially worthless. (in America’s eyes at least)
But I’ll be damned if I try and hide that face.
I say, we embrace our sagging boobs. We hug our cellulite-ridden thighs. And we ride this thing out until the wheels fall off in our natural body.
Not something science and Beverly Hills surgeons have created.

Keep it real. Real housewives. Keep it real. For us.
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