WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS THE WORD "BRA"
When I was young, it didn't matter that I was a bit short and a bit fat and a bit blind, a flick of a fabulous head of hair seemed to go a long way. I was never a looker, but still it didn't take much to feel I was taking good care of myself. And I had nice hair, if I may say so myself.
It's not like that any more.
I try to go to the gym not so I can get in shape or feel great, but only to delay the inevitable, and to prevent feeling even worse.
I used to need moisturizer only as an emergency measure; one application usually fixed the most dire dryness. Now I'm horrified if I skip one day; my hands look like Motueka tidal flat at high noon.
So I decided, while I sat in the sauna in the hotel in Auckland last week, that I needed to take better care of myself. Much better care.
I decided to make a concerted effort to care for my skin. I bought a giant loofah mitten (again) and a nice cake of soap; I always travel with two or three moisturizers so I was good there, and I used them all rigorously and generously, until our room smelled a cross between a tropical garden and a candy shop. Back home, I now have several loofah mittens, some nice soap, and about two or three years' worth of moisturizers, so I'm continuing to use them all every day.
I decided to clean out my closet once again, and throw away any item that look as tired as I feel. And I am allowing myself to invest in a pair of shoes; the kind that look like upmarket (leather?) sneakers that must be oh-so-comfortable to walk around town in. On days I'm not going to the gym, I shall wear those.
Finally I decided I have to get fitted for a bra. The last time I was fitted was shortly after my 30th birthday, in another country in another body. Today I was so embarrassed I was perspiring profusely, and I must have tried, oh, at nearly 25. My girth is too great for the size of my packages, and New Zealand women are generously endowed the other way around, so the shops don't have a lot in my size. I don't like frills and decorations, and desire black or beige. Plus, the saleswoman was young, slim and pesky, I mean, perky. But we persevered and I came out of Foxy Lady with three that fit like, well, a glove. At least no more puckering cups.
I am exhausted.