Now I understand, oh Master.

I've always listened to older women bitch. Bitch about their sagging boobs, the wrinkles that appear overnight, the saddlebags and expanding waistline, the sudden onset of invisibility around the opposite sex. I laughed it off. (Not to their faces, of course, I might be a socially-retarded bitch but I'm not cruel.) I was able to disregard their whining because I was young. I had a fairly nice body, my face and ass smooth, I could generally count on getting at least one "eye-contact" moment in a day. And my husband is hawt. So, yeah; I was one of those smug asshole women who probably think they're better looking than they actually are.
Hey, then I turned 37. And as some saying or other goes: the bottom dropped out of the market.
I have boobs that I can feel on my stomach when braless.
I have happy little waves of skin and that shall-remain-nameless subcutaneous substance cascading over my bra strap, the top of my pants, and oh dear lord, my jaw.
My waist is now inverse.
The folds of skin on my eyelids could now safely smuggle in a Mexican.
I swear men were purposefully looking away if I looked in their direction at the gym today. I was less than invisible; I am avoid-at-all-costs.

Now let's get something straight, before you click away in a huff thinking I'm one self-centered snotty cougar-wanna-be whose deep end couldn't drown a toothpick. I've never considered myself all that. I very realistically would put myself squarely at the "barely average" mark. My husband is an incredibly handsome man (and I am eternally grateful that he has no idea of it) and I am faithful to him. Yup. 101 percent. My number one concern on a minute-by-minute basis is the health and well-being of my daughter.
And I have been totally content with who I am, what I look like (other than the giant schnoz I got from my dad), my past history of feeling attractive. Really. I embrace much more important, profound, serious philosophies of life than whether I could still get laid by a 26-year-old swim-shop manager from South Africa.
But I do wonder about it. If I still could, I mean. But there's a sensible, grounded bit of me that knows that I really need to stop worrying about it. Right? There's nothing to be done, anyway. In ten years I'll look at photos of myself now and wonder what the hell I was complaining about. Will wish for the waist I don't have currently.

We all age; we all sag and get confused and leave the ones we love. Maybe I'm not really as shallow as all that. My hope is that I can age gracefully, stay healthy (K, gotta get healthy first), learn something everyday, make sure those I love are safe and happy.
Or, drink more martinis, get a shitpot of plastic surgery and botox, keep wearing inappropriately low-and-high-cut clothing, and someday strive to be voted "Sluttiest Senior" at the nursing home.
Yeah.
I'm hawt.