Drawing A Line In The Sand
But I'm a strong, independent woman, who does not place her entire self-worth on the image staring back at her in the mirror.
Shut up, Boo. This is my blog and I don't need your laughter ringing in my ears.
I understand that wrinkles are just memories smiles have left behind.
Really, does anyone believe this crap?
I can get behind the lines in the mirror without wanting a little shot of the botulism virus to make me feel better. I can adjust my once pert and perky boobs, thanks to the miracle of under wire. And if my bottom wants to spread a little, well, that's okay too. Isn't that what support underwear is for?
But I have to draw a line in the sand somewhere.
And that line has been drawn. Right under my chin.
Where a wayward black hair has pushed it's way through my milky white skin and protrudes like a thirteen year-old boy wearing sweat pants while watching the cheer squad practice their splits.
I have my very own whisker.
I've tried plucking the damn thing. It just keeps coming back. Uninvited and unannounced. (Like my mother-in-law. Hmmm...)
Waging a war on one lone whisker, I seem to have lost this battle. I wonder each time I pluck the damn thing, if three more are going to come and replace it. I wonder if I will wake one morning to discover that I am the bearded lady all the kids want to see when the carnival comes to town.
As if it is not an indignity in itself that my once firm jaw line has gone a little soft. A little less firm. In a few years, it may start to resemble the ole turkey waddle. Now I have to deal with a renegade hair that wants to draw attention to this fact?
Perhaps I should just give up. Embrace my new look. Grow out my little chin hair.
And when it gets long enough, I can put a bead on it and make music with the wind.
I can start a whole new trend.
Matching beads on my boobs with the chin bead as an accessory.
I'm so sexy.
***Edit: Okay, dear internet, for all you fellow bloggers who have informed me of the dreaded neck whiskers, I concede to you. That is much scarier. And neurotic. (As I now stare in the mirror every two seconds to see if I've sprouted one yet!)***