The really irritating thing about not getting my third JF novel published sooner than half way through next year (Glory- Scholastic) is that I will be that much closer to menopause. Oh it’s not the moodiness that bothers me; I can put aside irrational anger long enough to smile at my book launch. No, it’s that I will be another year older and yet a little less gorgeous for the publicity photos. At 24 I thought I had years up my sleeve and now at twice that, dammit, I find that lines, wrinkles and other age enhanced attributes increase exponentially with age. My greatest fear is that I might be 70 before I can finally afford designer clothes and will have by then lost all will to wear anything other than Osti frocks and Kumfs; I already own Hush Puppies…and then, of course is the horrible realisation that I might indeed be turning into an old dog too….
Today I found a long bristle,
Upon my chinny chin chin,
And my fragile shell of vanity,
Like the little pig’s house, caved in.
I sought my mother’s wise counsel,
For the first time in thirty five years,
But the revelation imparted,
Did nothing to stifle my fears.
Apparently whiskers are common,
As you head down the menopause track,
Whilst men lose their hair, we get more to spare,
God, I hope it won’t sprout on my back.
It seems I’ll be doomed to plucking,
Or have them electrically speared,
For if I let nature have her own way,
I’d sport a luxuriant beard.
There’s always the option of shaving;
I’d bond with my husband each day,
We’d both lather up every morning,
To scrape all our worries away.
Considering my changing complexion,
From peaches to old kiwifruit,
I could then change my beauty care options,
And swop my Clinique for his Brut.