Did you hear it? It was me realizing that I am indeed aging and much to rapidly for my liking. Call me vain and I'd agree. Not vain enough though to increase my inferior bust size but just enough to methodically color my hair. What bothers me most about my vanity is that it's relatively new in terms of the entirety of my life.
From the moment I gave birth 4 years ago I think it's fair to say that I've aged a minimum of 15 years. It's a sad truth. I've watched in horror as my eyes first puffed and then sagged. I've noticed age spots appear overnight but possibly the most disturbing thing is noticing the influx of facial hair. Since when did my body decide to randomly sprout thick black hairs? Whenever that moment was I can say in all honesty that I was not consulted.
Being short only adds to the problem since most people are staring down on those gray roots that I so despise and we all know that lighting at that angle isn't very forgiving. Needless to say, I'm about 30 pounds away from looking like a peasant woman in the old country. I might as well take to wrapping my hair in a kerchief and donning an apron.
It's not OK. I'm not OK. I need to start fighting genetics with an iron fist beginning today, no yesterday, or I'm libel to suffer the fate of those before me. The thought of my butt hitting the back of my knees horrifies is enough to get me in workout gear but then what? I'm overwhelmed and panicked. Maybe if I just start running. Who cares if it's out of fear? Who cares if as I'm running past the tall skinny plastic bitches in my neighborhood they're casting looks at me. What they don't see, can't see, is the plump hairy little Italian woman chasing me.