The Great Betrayal

I’m almost 60, and thought I had a pretty good handle on aging. The gray hair, saggy jowls, droopy boobs, chin whiskers, and crow’s feet were all manageable with hair color, fillers, a good bra, tweezers, and wrinkle cream.

I’ve also made peace with my lack of estrogen and my thicker middle with creams and clothes that don’t cling at the waist. (If I weren’t a stubborn dumbass, I would’ve done that years ago.) As for my bigger feet? Just an excuse to buy new shoes.

So yes, I thought I was aging gracefully… until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day in natural light and thought, Holy sh*t! What the f*cking hell is going on with my legs?

Purple blotches. Lumps. Cellulite. Age spots. Parts of my thighs engulf my knees. Veins pop out like a Rand McNally road atlas - and apparently, nothing short of a small fortune can fix any of it.

The worst part is that my legs used to be my best feature, and they have betrayed me. Now, every time I look at them, I’m instantly transported back to my grandmother sweltering while sitting by my plastic kiddie pool in the summer with her capri pants rolled up just below her knees. I remember asking her why she didn’t just put on shorts. I don’t remember her answer—but I’m older now than she was then, and MY GOD, I get it.

I have…old lady legs.

Now I find myself gazing wistfully at women in their 20s, 30s, even 40s with their lithe, smooth thighs that have barely a bump or a jiggle, something I will never have again.

Do you hear that sound? That's me. Weeping softly into my sensible shoes.