Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

The wrinkles on my face are growing, and they make my face sag, and it’s also ok, because I’m still lovely, sweet child all beautiful and sweet if not exactly Spring fresh. K. and R. shouldn’t talk about wrinkles, because one of them is Greek and the other of them Japanese, and the lines on the face of a white girl — I don’t care if I have a few less years — are sadder and true. It’s true. They are there, glaring obviousity, paper tissue thin skin pale as the harvest moon, veins soon to show, bags under eyes, that peachy porcelain skin I once had has evaporated into age. I thought it was a forever thing but it was a just-until-25-years-old thing, and that’s ok, I get microdermabrasion and glycol acid facials every now and again, and they’re gonna help me salvage my skin, just like my mother, she’s glowing, she’s radiant, I should be so lucky. I know! Let’s all agree at 65 we will look like K., because that woman’s got it. Birthday in December and the woman doesn’t look a day over –hey, by the way, did you get that last Examiner? The newspapers in Oakland are claiming that wrinkles are the new tattoo, and I’m half afraid to admit it, but I’m STOKED. Never was much for the needle, but a few wrinkles, have at me, now that’s a guaranteed beauty mark I can stand for.

If I call them “wrinkes” or “wrinkies” do they sound less threatening?

It’s funny, because I look in the mirror and see more wrinkles — I’m mean, let’s be honest, I’m not as vibrant as I used to be, (goddam bitch didn’t know what she had, goddam bitch doesn’t know what she HAS) — and my immediate reaction is to squirm. or criticize. or somehow play the part of insecure victim. ‘I’m ugly!’ I’m supposed to whine, and then feel embarrassed for caring in the first place. (“shouldn’t I be beyond this? more evolved?”)

But lately, I’ve been looking in the mirror with admiration, and kind of saying “hey there beautiful, you’re not so bad, you know that? You’re actually pretty beautiful, in an interesting kind of way. Give us a kiss!” And when I walk down the street and the construction men turn their heads, I realize, they don’t fucking know the difference between a 23 and a 32 year old face. Not really. They just see WOMAN. Woman! Woman is power, fuck the hows and the what. WOMAN. I think I actually mean this. I went to Essex last night and soaked in the tub and there were just bodies, no lines or smoothness, all lines and all smoothness, and wrinkles and folds, too. And I just thought WOMAN. Woman’s hot. Woman is me. And woman is you. I’m ready for some Yin in my life. Let’s all dip in and drink up. An era of Yin. Go passive and regressive to some earlier time in history, before cell phones became our penises and before we ever knew what beauty and ugly were. When we were just a shining light, and that light was soft. And then my hips were much narrower, but I understood width and breadth and holding on to the emptiness, being nothing more than a vessel for me for you for me for you.

§1358 · April 16, 2014 · Freewrites, Writing & Language · Tags: , , , · [Print]

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