...the cut-off

from book two: Arms and Legs In and Have a Nice Ride

To: astutiecutie@win.out

The latest psycho-survey says that adults laugh as a response to fear… fear that a situation may happen to them. This book should be hilarious! And so it begins, T.

As a child, I remember Mom’s warnings. “It’s half-past,” she trilled as she flew past me like a busy quail, on her morning quest to roust the brood. I could tell from her tone that this fact was critical, but it never really dawned on me how any hour could be half-past, so I dallied on and wondered what was so frantic.

But, now I know! If I have my math right, this is the year when the half life begins on my own personal toxic waist! I’ve peaked; I’m over the hill, and sliding down the slag pile. Suddenly, Mom’s vision of urgency is starkly clear! It’s half-passed!

To: thatsritch@take.out

So, does this new haircut make my rear look big? I could attach my photo and email it to you, my best friends who would tell me honestly, but the whole photo thing takes too much time and it probably wouldn’t work anyway. Just take my word for it, my bottom is bigger in the hour since I got this new flippy haircut and it’s out of control!

Gotta go, Me, T.

It was to be expected—this ever-looming crisis. (That’s why women never tell their age, for fear their bodies will overhear.) The first indication was when I started walking two miles a day and gained five pounds. How does that happen? Muscle may weigh more than fat, but the bottom line is dresses don't lie and the bottom doesn't fit in the dress.

To: thatsritch@take.out

I'm off sugar, watching the fat, avoiding pop and increasing my fiber by eating more popcorn. I'm awake at five-thirty with every muscle and joint aching, but this time I can blame it on exercise— stretching and dashing around the block in a frantic attempt to stave off the inevitable decline of everything. It's getting harder and harder to feel good about myself, and this dang haircut didn't help. Again soon, T.

Until now, birthdays that end in nine have never been a problem for me, in part because I skip them entirely and move on to the next decade. No one ever really believes you’re twenty-nine, thirty-nine or forty-nine anyway, so my age is the next round number for the next two years and it has worked out well.

To: thatsritch@take.out

It has to be the hair. More on the ‘do,’ it's a short cut that all the actresses named Jennifer have, you know, flippy at the bottom. The rest of the real world has it too. I know ‘cause I just drove home with thirty other Jennifers.

On me it’s more a 1950's apron, circle-skirt, high-heeled father–knows-best look! I’m waiting for someone to tell me I look like June Cleaver. Back then, women looked like they had such tiny waists because of their big hair! Whew, T.

But I’ve never been this old before! It’s more than just the body, or the hair. I’m more than halfway through and I’m not halfway through—finished I mean! The mid-life trauma of being little behind is much more than no longer having a little behind—it’s much bigger!

The life list is long and I must get started. I’m finding myself adding line items to the list just so that I can mark them off, to appear to me that I have completed something in my back-forty!

What am I thinking? I need to get a firmer grasp on what is really important. I don’t have time for this now! It’s early; I still have half my life. I’ll deal with this next decade.

Reality Bite: So, then…it's not my butt! It is the hair. Or it could be the distortion of my reflection on the foil liner of the popcorn bag.