As I have gotten older I have been very critical of Hollywood celebrities and their plastic surgeries. Why, I would always ask, do they do that to themselves? They make themselves look worse, not better. Take, for example, Marie Osmond. She was always so beautiful! At this point, though, she barely resembles her 'natural' self. What with the brow lift and the 'trout pout' (anybody out there see her on Oprah after her son committed suicide?), she looks like a freak! I just never understood. How on earth could these women think that they looked better? That was then. Now, I understand.
When I turned 50, I started experiencing the joyful symptoms of menopause. I was plagued, particularly, with hot flashes which are, by the way, VERY hot and come on in a flash. I remember one particular time, I was standing in line to check out at Macy's. There was one woman in line in front of me. The salesgirl glanced at me and said that she would be right with me. The woman in front of me had maybe 2 items, so it did not take long to conclude her transaction. However, in that very brief amount of time, I began to experience a hot flash. They always start from the top of my head and go down my body. In no time at all, yea, a veritable FLASH, all of my hair was soaking wet, my face was dripping, and my shirt was sticking to my sopping wet chest. I moved forward and put my items on the counter. The salesgirl who had glanced at me only moments previous, now gasped and asked, "Are you alright?" (Never a good sign when they ask that!) I said, "Have you ever heard of hot flashes?" She indicated that, yes, she had heard of such things. I said, "Well, this is what one looks like." She was clearly disturbed by this information.
As 50 turned into 51, I was fully in the throes of "The Change." My hair, which was always very thick when I was younger, began to thin. I began to experience the severe joint pain that can be associated with menopause. My face suddenly became a road map of wrinkles. I'd chuckle bitterly at the Oil of Olay ads that promised to "smooth out fine lines"......there was nothing fine about my lines. They were deep rivulets that I could FEEL with my fingertips, even when I had no mirror with which to view them. I also began to enjoy to highly-euphemistically-named "Mood Swings" that I had not had much trouble with when I was menstruating. I would be driving down the highway and suddenly start SOBBING and not have a clue why. I felt like I was losing my mind.
My OB/Gyn was not much help. She refused to prescribe hormone replacement drugs or any other kind of medication for me. She explained, with an irritatingly sweet smile on her face, that this was "just another phase of life" to enjoy and experience. I asked her if it would ever get better. With the same lovely grin on her face, she responded, "No."
Now I am 52. In addition to all of the aforementioned symptoms, I am not experiencing hair LOSS. The hair on the very top of my head is so thin, my scalp is clearly visible. My face has finally given up the fight. Whereas before, if I wore enough make-up, was in the right light, and used the right camera angle, I had a chance of still being able to take a somewhat flattering photograph, not even those techniques will work anymore. The last time I tried to get a good picture taken, I looked at all of the rejected attempts and wept. I realized the truth: I am old and ugly and there is nothing I can do about it anymore. It was then that I also realized why Marie and all of her cohorts are rushing to their plastic surgeons and estheticians in droves: they have had that "I-am-old-and-ugly" moment themselves and, since they have the money to do so, have decided to put up a fight.
Sadly, it is a losing battle. I ask myself, if I were incredibly rich, would I go under the knife. The answer is: probably yes. But I do not have that kind of cash, so it is not an option. I guess it's for the best. It would be a waste of money, I am sure. I have to face the truth: I am old and ugly and middle-aged and a dried up old (did I already use that word??) hag. It's depressing, but there is nothing to do but live with it and hope that I did not inherit my Great-Grandmother's longevity. She lived to be over 100 years old!
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