There are some phrases I always laugh at—like “you would make a great mother.” I always assume they left a verb or an extra noun off at the end.
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It’s a strange thing, being a woman in her forties in the age of internet porn and unabashed selfies. There’s some gray in the hair. Smile lines and other wrinkles are starting to show. Plus, no matter how hard you work out, you’ve got to eat, and, well, let’s just say your metabolism isn’t what it used to be.
The modern world seems geared to instant gratification and visual perfection. Women’s asses and breasts now have Twitter accounts —literally, just pictures of young, perky asses and big, fake boobs attached to pornographic or promotional tweets (don’t get me started on clickbait). How a pair of breasts in a push-up bra can honestly offer you sound advice on successful day trading and navigating the nuances of the stock market is a mystery, and, yet, there they are, promising us all the moon via the power of mammary glands.
Meanwhile, you’re kind of busy no longer being a nubile twenty-or-thirty-something. And, yes, you’re smarter than you used to be, but still haven’t yet reached that magical point of Zen where you no longer worry about the superficial things. You’re betting that’s going to be your sixties. So, in the meantime, here you are—wincing at every picture taken and trying your damnedest to figure out how to minimize lines and what angle makes your big old moon pie face look the thinnest.
Still, bleak as it is, there is hope.
Every once in a while, you find that one photo where you recognize yourself from the inside. There’s just something about the eyes that tells you, unequivocally, that you’re going to be okay. That you’re still you and it’s time to stop stressing and enjoy whatever life and happiness you possess.
In moments like these, you truly see yourself, and it’s the kind of sight that comes with understanding. That elementary, my dear Watson moment where you catch a glimpse of yourself doing you like nobody else can. It’s easy to get caught up in all the smoke and mirrors these days. Hell, there’s so much flash without substance that it’s almost scary. It’s easy to lose sight of the important things. Like the fact that there are only two windows to your soul—and they’re still right there, in that old, familiar face.
The eyes have it—the one and only YOU.
This poem is so old that I don’t remember writing it. There are eight of them at the beginning of an old journal I stuffed in a box, one in which I never finished writing. On the bright side, I now have a new old journal. In retrospect, all I can say it that I am an old bat now and that the ’90s were a marvelous, twisted time for me—easily witnessed by the fact that I titled this poem Love Song rather than something like Slutty Sugar Analogy:
I eat boys
with enigmatic smiles
who wear their sex
like wild cologne.
who hold their cocks
who drive me
like they own me.
I eat boys
that spank me.
just like it rough…