Year VI: Ar’ba [The painful truth]
In the words of my [younger] alter-ego:
But there were things I have neglected saying these past year and a half. Things that went to sleep with me and got out of bed in the morning with me. Things that I read in the air every time I stood naked in front of my mirror. Fears I gotta face every time I pulled my lips down to examine my teeth whose gums seem to be receding a tiny bit further from too much twig brushing with a mix of salt and charcoal when young. Bags that show up under my eyes every morning I slept badly, making me – in the word of Garett – ‘look tired’; which Donna said was another way of saying ‘you look like shit’. That I was fast approaching that fateful number 35; where I will transition from one age group [young, 18-34] to another [Middle-age, 35-death]. An age-group I would become the target audience of age-defying skin-care creams, under-eye firming serums and AARP junk-mails. Where my doctor would use words like “women in your age group” before she suggests that I start thinking of mammograms, yearly examinations and my 401K plans. That these were the few precious years before I hit menopause where my skin is still tight, my breasts still perky and my sexuality supposedly reaches its highest peak. An age where I can at least freeze my eggs, even if no one would take them if I donated them [29 is the cutting point] and where a guy should “shit or get off the pot” while I still have a chance.
In the words of someone much more talented:
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