THE FLOOR IS A MAGNET

When you first see creases on your knees...

Let me explain. I have a full-length vintage mirror, propped against the wall. Summer arrived early and with particular vengeance this year. I stood in front of it one morning, several outfits spread over my bed.

I am far from fashion-conscious, preferring instead eclectic and at times eccentric thrift-shop clothes. Their mystery appeals to me. Who wore them? Where did they travel? Some carry labels from Paris and Rome and Barcelona, Athens, New York… How did they get here?

Anyway, outfit one was a short flowing dress without sleeves. Perfect. I threw it over my head and stood in front of the mirror. Only I didn’t see the dress, I saw the creases above my knees. I had creases above my knees! I quickly tossed the dress and stood before the mirror in my undies.

I was melting! How had I not noticed? I’ve always been thin, so finding clothes to fit has never been a problem. Suddenly I was the problem though, or rather my fifty year old body was.

I looked down at the floor. That’s where everything was going see, every bit of flesh was on a downward slide. Face, chin, neck, arms, breasts, waist, butt, thighs, knees! The floor was a f*****g magnet and my body a saggy mess, rushing to connect as much of its surface to it as possible.

Of course I cursed Newton. If he hadn’t discovered gravity and blabbered on about it, maybe the floor would never know it was a magnet and then my body would not feel the compulsion to sag and melt in order to connect with it.

I tried on a pair of cut-off jeans and my NaNoWriMo 2015 winner’s tee next. I was rather proud of the achievement. But it was 38 degrees outside and the tee was black, the neckline too high and the jeans too tight. I was hot already, despite the air conditioner. I’d covered up most of the saggy stuff though so I’d blend in out there, no one would notice me.

At the doctor’s waiting area, where I am a regular visitor, caring for both parents, I thumb through the glossies. Page after page of re-touched perfection; impossibly smooth faces, improbably taut, velvety bodies, just the right shade of fake tan.

Somewhere near the middle pages, I find the inevitable handful of age-defying attempts gone wrong; frozen faces, migrating or leaky b***s, butts so full of injected fat they resemble shelves you can prop your coffee on.

At a time when youth and beauty have become commodities, bought, sold or traded in for higher rungs on the ladder, I ache. I do. Aging gracefully and unassisted by professionals is no longer acceptable. My melting flesh is an aberration, a sign of neglect, laziness, even an indicator of poverty for surely if I had the means (money) I would do something about it?

I changed again, a below the knee dress, grey tones, the sleeves loose, ending just above the elbow. Age-appropriate sure and I’d seen many a variation of it out there. I stared at my frumpiness. I looked old! I didn’t feel old but this dress made me want to walk slower, and I saw myself pushing one of those square shopping trolleys down the street. I was my mother!

Several years ago, I sold clothes at a regular Sunday Trash and Treasure market. I’d find these clothes in thrift-shops, or take them from friends who no longer wore them. My stall was quite popular and I had many regular buyers.

My favourite lady always wore outrageous outfits, bursts of colour, striking patterns, chunky jewellery, bold make-up… She’d choose anything that was different and she had the knack of combining improbable items and creating an ensemble that somehow always made you smile. 

In the middle of winter she’d appear like a spring bouquet, her blues and greens and her favourite orange hues giving the eyes relief from the sea of black and greys and browns. Summertime she blazed, rivalling the sun, sporting glorious dresses; some very short, some longer, flowing, trailing like a cascade of flowers. She always wore funky sandals and the most outrageous hats.

She was in her eighties. EVERYTHING sagged. She didn’t care. She always smiled, she laughed often, and her conversation was a mix of outrageous comments and glorious expletives. Clothes were her fun, her adventure. I loved her!

I put the first dress back on in the end. My creases and all of my saggy bits went shopping.  Other women my age wore more appropriate outfits; longer dresses, Capri pants and sleeved tops, even trousers. They looked hot. They looked bothered. One or two frowned at me in passing, mentally tut-tutting. I smiled instead, my longer strides confident, outpacing their condemnation.

To the first lot in those magazines, I now say “enjoy your ignorance, and may you never discover the floor is a magnet.” To the second lot, I say, “the floor is a f*****g magnet, stop trying to prove Newton wrong!”

The floor may be a magnet and I am melting sure, just as quickly as the rest. But I’ll be damned if I let my saggy bits define me!