Oh youth where art tho??

Oh no.. Tell me this isn’t happening… years of arrogant boasting about how I will grow old naturally echo in my head as I sense clammy pits coming over the horizon. It sneaked up on me slowly in my defence, and considering at the tiny age of 34 it still feel like yesterday I nervously purchased my first box of tampons I couldn’t have really been prepared right?! Well OK it was probably a box of super plus nappy imitating pads, but I like to romanticise I was a tad cooler than I actually was, so lets get back to the deadly serious subject of my sudden desire to self preserve. Right, so It doesn’t help that my husband is a budding photographer you know.. and In fact I would like to renounce all responsibility and blame my recent (incredibly superficial) concerns on him completely if that’s OK? I mean why on earth would a happy clappy humanist mother of two, who has spiritually propelled herself past the trappings of image presentation that held me prisoner in my youth, suddenly feel like leaving the house without lippy on would be as sensible as doing the school run in my pj’s??.. and not the nice ones either. (you know the ones I mean!)

It started with a picture here and there as I faffed about the house doing chores.. “hey kendy smile a second” my husband would innocently ask after fiddling with the settings on his camera. I kindly obliged, as I generally do, and thought nothing of it at first. “Don’t worry about posing it’s just to check the lighting” he would say, and I confidently smiled as he clicked away. I happily Ignored the small and meek voice in my head and initially took no interest in seeing the pictures he took, blissfully floating on in ignorance. But, time passed and inevitably my husband started to ask my opinion.. from a professional angle of course.. and completely unbiased, naturally! So, I scanned my eyes over them, purposefully keeping my judgements as far from my tongue as I could bear and chanting mantras of self love loudly over that (not so meek anymore) voice that was chattering to me a bit more casually than I would have liked at this point. “they’re great honey! Well done!” Every cell of my being urged me fervently to spend an hour pouring over the images, dissecting my wrinkled eyes, my red blotchy rosacea covered skin and my pale cracked lips. Not to even get started on my puffy face that I hardly recognise from those extra damn 30 lbs that seems to attach itself to me, no matter how hard I try to ditch em when their back is turned!

And hey don’t get me wrong, I am aware.. WELL aware just like the rest of us that I am not a victoria secret supermodel, and I eat more for breakfast than they eat in a week. And along with the rest of the sensible women in the world I know my looks don’t define me, they are not what make me successful, a good mother or wife, or a good and humble human being who contributes positive energy to our planet, spreading love and peace as I go about my day… but man alive I REALLY don’t look 17 years old anymore!! I could always rely on my young plump red lips to present my smile, and my glowing skin to carry that grin happily around without a care in the world (well less cares anyway). But, it appears that I have stumbled upon the realisation that at some point I maybe have to actually start taking care of myself?? That my nonchalant care free approach to my skincare and general presentation (ie coconut oil and a splash of water) wont carry me trough into my 40’s and beyond. Am I destined to be scanning forums for advice on plumping creams and mature skin friendly foundation? To spend hours pouring over lipstick reviews to ensure I get a lasting effect that leaves me content I got good value for money? Ahhh crap balls… And YO! on top of that I have even discovered a new desire to “dress for my figure”, to wear things because they are practical and stylish, not because those 7 inch wedge platforms will clash perfectly with my pink spiked hair, and not because my flared jeans are slung so low that when I bend down a 30 stone builder would be jealous of dat biblical crack.

Also, I NEVER thought I would agree with my mother on the ideal rise on a pair of skinnies, or dreamed I would consider chopping in my vintage glam rock faux fur jacket for some kinda ..fitted.. wool coat with… toggles?? Sigh… I am not the person I thought I was anymore, and I must take this new woman out for a skinny soya latte (I know right…) to ask her how we should move forward from here. I feel about as prepared to grow up as I feel ready to do a 360 backflip off the wall of china on on a bmx, but apparently it is inevitable? And hey, maybe it wont be so bad to look clean and classic, maybe I could rock it?! Maybe I will enjoy my new brown brogues, and relish not spending 5 minutes adjusting my outfit every time I get off a chair. It’s very possible that resigning myself to watching youtube tutorials on “how to create the perfect 5 min early morning dash Up-Do” will lead to a found effortless looking style that makes me proud to be growing older…. With a little helping hand of course!! Let the sell out begin….

P.S I’m obviously keeping the fur.. (Shh don’t tell grown up kendy)


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