Whoever said that aging could be compared to a fine wine, was either drunk, born with exceptionally good genes, or male. If they'd been imbibing in a five-dollar bottle of Boone's Farm, they could have said life was short, sweet, and effective. But since historical inaccuracies lead me to think that nigh on impossible, we could reach the conclusion they were male, and not looking at an older woman.
Women in general do not age like fine wines, unless we have those supermodel genes that we'd all kill for. Susan Sarandon, Tina Turner, they are the lucky and among the few. Women, oh purveyor of the male lie, curdle like so much milk.
Sure at eighteen, we're nubile, young, a fresh carton on an infinite shelf of possibilities. We're bright and shining in a marketplace, being eyed by all the customers, completely ignorant of the expiration date stamped on our ass. By twenty-one, we've been in a few markets, passed by a few prospective looking refrigerators, but we're in our prime it's no rush right? By twenty-five, the alarms are sounding, panic is setting in. We're mid-midlife…where's our big fridge that we've always dreamed of? By thirty it's over, the expiration dates reached and we're left wondering where the hell we went wrong.
In today's society, especially the American one, it's rated as follows: beauty, sexuality, brains, and finally age. The first commercial I hear in the morning, maybe it's the Gods of California telling me to give in, is an ad for body sculpting. Not body art, body modification, but sculpting. This entails taking pieces of my thigh, and putting it where there was none before. Shifting around the human flesh, molding into the IDEAL.
Unfortunately it seems if you have any of the rating system out of balance you're simply left to shelf, no matter how many sculpting sessions might be undertaken. If you have too nice of looks and no brains, well you're a good time, but why by the cow when you get the milk free? But if you have good looks, good brains, a complete nymph, but too old, well you might as well be put out to pasture.
We either find the permanent refrigerator or we become cottage cheese, dreaming someday of mixing it up with Jell-O and fruit cocktail, living out our days in a happy mess. The alternative perhaps becoming sour cream and finding ourselves dolloped on a taco.
So what's a girl to do in this day and age? Should we squirrel our small savings away in hopes of concealing our ages? Bribe an agent at the DMV office if they'll just shave three years off? Not to mention that unsightly five pounds. As more and more focus is placed on the younger generations, are we soon to find ourselves living the live action version of Logan's Run? Or will the curdled women population rise up and declare NO MORE? Well considering plastic surgery sales are up, make up sales are tripled, and there are new treatments for aging and age defying…I'm thinking the no more…is a solitary squeak of a breaking wheel. Maybe oiled with the fat of the overweight, aged populace…the squeak will fade to the distance, and we'll end our lives at 30, instead celebrating the numerous anniversaries of our prime, until the point we reach senility and begin our backwards descent into aging.
