Hello, Tuesday

hello tuesday margot potter.jpg

Hello, Tuesday.

It's sunny. There's melt-y snow on the ground. My daughter is upstairs, asleep, which makes me happy. She's only here for the week, and then gone again. Right on the heels of that unwelcome departure, of course, my husband is heading overseas for a week and a half.

This refrain is getting really old. 

I am adjusting to the new home, new town, and the new wrinkles that have arrived unceremoniously.

Oh, hello, new wrinkles.

From whence did you wander and how might I direct you onward?

Hi thee ho, wrinkles.

Thither and yon.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

Not that you have asses, but you get the point.

Oh, that's how it's going to go then. 

Persistent little buggers, aren't you?

Aging is an interesting phenomenon, because it's mostly incremental, but there are these occasional little leaps forward that seem to happen overnight. My lower face is marching ever towards my neck. Then, there's my neck, also on a southern trajectory. You can read all about that in my new book

Shameless book plug? Why yes, thanks for asking.

I don't see these changes in the mirror as much as I see them in photos. Social media, that insatiable beast, is ever in need of photos. Since I'm home alone, often, they're often selfies. It's weird, taking and editing photos of yourself. It's illuminating seeing your face on a computer screen as you lighten the contrast or brighten the exposure in a vain attempt to present yourself in your best light. Oh so much dual meaning in that sentence...I would unpack it but I think it best to leave it where it is. 

According to the aging gracefully police, I'm supposed to embrace the passage of time and the changes to my face and body with solemn reverence. Honestly, I'm not on board with that agenda. I admire those 'wicked cool' over 50 ladies who claim wrinkles as stripes as they strike bad ass poses in couture clothing. I am not one of them, at least not yet. I lack the couture and the conviction. I'm just me, Madge, doing my best to negotiate the indignities of aging and learning to accept, if not embrace, the ravages of time. 

The truth is, much of what happens to our skin as we age is a result of sun damage and inflammation and free radical damage none of which is inevitability. It's not written in stone, merely etched in your epidermis. You can always sandblast that shit. It's just a meat suit, after all. I am not my meat suit, I am the consciousness that currently resides inside. At least this is what I tell myself. I may just be a random array of synapses firing in my brain and central nervous system surrounded by a random collection of matter briefly arranged in this meat suit that will return to the great cosmic dust bin upon my departure. We are the stuff of stars, just ask Carl. 

The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of star stuff.
— Carl Sagan

It's not that I'm afraid of getting old, because I'm hoping to live a long, long time. It's just that I like my face the way it is and I'm not yet ready to let it go. I've already let my wonderful child go, and my hopes of ever playing Sally Bowles in Cabaret go, and my ability to traipse about town in ridiculous high heels go...how much must I release to the passing of time?

Besides, time an illusion we humans accept as reality, as is space. We're having a consensual delusion. 

Wow, this got deep.

Anyway, it's Tuesday. I'm writing a blog post. I think I hear the vague sounds of my daughter rustling around upstairs. The dogs will need to go outside to sniff things and pee on other things. The small details of my daily delusions beckon. I do hope that you have a lovely day. If you see my wrinkles, kindly tell them to fuck off.