I know. After 20 some odd years of resistance, my teeth only ever forcibly flossed by the dental hygenist on my biannual cleanings and somehow managing to maintain a no-cavity streak during that entire time (thus completely justifying my righteous indignation toward the idea of forcing string between my teeth and raping my poor, innocent gums), I have succumbed to the floss.
And do you know why?
Because I read some article in some magazine somewhere that said flossing makes your gums stronger, which makes your mouth (and all of the skin around it, my GOD!) look years younger. And that was all it took. I may have put the magazine down and walked directly to the bathroom.
Y'all, I think I have a problem. All someone has to do lately is tell me that something is going to make me look younger or continue to look young for longer or is some sort of distant, potential key to the elixir of youth and I will do it. Regularly. Starting right now. Or five minutes ago.
Example? I heard that every time you rub your eyes, or engage in the mindless but often entertaining activity of pulling the mascara off of your individual lashes, that you are loosening the skin underneath your eyes and ultimately causing it to sag. DONE. And also? Done. Never again. I'm scared to put my hands anywhere near my face anymore, honestly. And I've started applying sunblock to every exposed part of my person every second of every day, overcast, sunny, in the shade, sitting in an office building in a parka -- I don't care. I can't be looking like a leather handbag in 15 years.
At the not-at-all-old age of 26 I can't honestly explain to you what has brought on this fairly recent obsession with the secrets of the fountain of youth. (Although the other day I did find a spider vein on my right leg and god dammit I DEMAND AN EXPLANATION.) I guess it just occurred to me all of a sudden that I'm young and I have young skin and while I've never been one to fret over actually growing older -- god knows I'll take a birthday any day of the week because, hello, PRESENTS -- at some point I managed to have a quasi-existential meltdown about the fact that this face that still gets me carded for liquor in countries where the legal age to purchase is 18 is not going to be there forever. Who knows? One day I might actually call the 800 number and order this stuff. Allah help us all.
I've changed the things I eat and the face products I use and while it'll be years before I know what good my investments have done for me, I can tell you this: As I toil endlessly to do everything exactly right, there are certain things I cannot change, and won't ever be able to. The scars on my legs have faded, but they'll never go away. I'm pretty sure no matter how much I run, I'll always have that womanly pooch that sometimes makes me feel feminine and other times makes me feel like Jabba the Hutt.
But the other day, as I was walking into the grocery store, I fell in stride behind two young girls wearing very short shorts. I would've guessed they were 20 or 21 and probably weighed that much, too. And y'all? The backs of their legs, all praises be to science, were COVERED in cellulite. I have never loved the site of that dimply fat so much as I did that day.
It's like when the really hot chick has raging halitosis. Or also what I would define very clearly as a gift directly from the universe to me, shipped overnight express with a fancy card and a bow.
And now if you'll excuse me, I don't think I've flossed yet today.
cheers,
elizabeth
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