In The Spirit of Protesting Getting Old…

A friend was recently bemoaning the fact that middle age is creeping up and it inspired me to post this little snippet. It’s not exactly a protest as she suggested, but rather confirmation that we all feel it. Hope you enjoy!


I ate my food quickly, inhaled it to be precise and nestled back on the couch to stare at the blank screen once more. Just do it, Jenny. Just do it. I took a deep breath, rested my hands on the keyboard, began to type and then jabbed at the backspace key with a slight sense of panic. I quickly rose again from the sofa to adjust the shade in the window directly across from me as if some passerby might suspect my covert activity and then decided I might as well use the lavatory while I was up. I shuffled off down the hall to the momentary reprieve the bathroom would provide and giggled at the word lavatory. God, I was close to losing it.  I didn’t actually have to go, but I made an exaggerated effort of washing my hands and throwing on pajamas, and then decided to brush my teeth and wash my face as well. I stared into the mirror as I finished up with the moisturizer, diligently covering all the contours of my face and neck and wondering whether I needed to touch up the color of my hair. I was an expert in the area since I began playing with my hair color at the tender age of fifteen. My natural hue was something akin to a mousy brown and my sister tormented me about it relentlessly when I was a child. Throughout the years I had been a honey blonde, ashy blonde, brunette, auburn, plum, red. My hair had run the gamut of colors from racy to edgy to prim. Over the last few years I stuck with shoulder length light brown locks that complimented my pale skin decently. It’s true my skin was pale, but I never had that rosy glow that I admired on so many other women. I was all for diversity, but no one ever talked about the beauty issues that arise when parents of say, British and Mediterranean heritage procreated. You wound up with pale skin and lots of dark hair in places like eyebrows, lip, chin, hell, arms for that matter- places that required diligent upkeep. But I did it all conscientiously, with each passing year becoming more and more a slave to the beauty rituals that would somehow slow the changes that inevitably come with aging. I knew the local Sephora like the back of my hand and had been a fan of StriVectin for over a year now. Well, my grey eyes looked the same all these years later and that was a small comfort. I glanced down at my nightgown and sighed. Not much I could do with these besides a bra with a super lethal underwire. Nursing two babies had seen to that.

I switched off the light and left the room unsure whether my dance with procrastination had done more to rally my spirit or undermine my resolve. For what seemed like the millionth time this evening, I snuggled up on the couch, grabbed the computer and began to type.


About Nicole

I am the mother of two wonderful children and daring to chase the dream of writing my first novel.
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One Response to In The Spirit of Protesting Getting Old…

  1. njgirl197329 says:

    Omg I love it! I could just sit and read everything u write!!.

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