A guest post from my lovely friend Leta! She saw Melissa browsing the shelves at her place of employment...
on a woman thirty years younger, Melissa's makeup would have been garish.
On Melissa, closer to seventy than to fifty, perusing the store with her two
grandchildren, it was tasteless. Blue eyeshadow has been troweled onto
her eyelids, while a wide swath of eyeliner tries to conceal the sparseness of
her lashes. The blush, three shades too red, doesn't cover up the sun
damage on her face, while the lipstick, two shades too pink, can't plump the
narrow lines of her lips.
Melissa's hair sometimes fools people. It retains its youthful color,
sways and bounces the same way it did when she was eighteen. But her body
has let her down. The rhinestones on the back pockets of her jeans only
highlight how the curves of her hips have lost their battle with gravity.
The low scoop of her top reveals skin that has a delicate paper thinness,
instead of the glowing plumpness that used to make men wolf whistle out their
cars when she walked to the lake in her bikini. Melissa doesn't like
looking at her hands, though. They aren't her hands. They are the
uncertain, lined, wasted hands of her grandmother.
But her deep tan, her blond highlights, her pushup bra, her expensive manicures
help her forget all of that. She walks confidently, and in her head she
is still the firm and heartbreaking teenager, the bombshell twenty-something,
the sexy mom that made other moms at the PTA meetings jealous.
Leta's kind of saving my butt here. Our couchsurfers were AWESOME, which means that I basically haven't slept lately. I was too wiped out to write this morning, but then I remembered she had sent me this story a while back, and all was well.