Finding inner peace is a stressful business.
Meditation is fine, most of the time. Here’s my problem: I have a fertile imagination, so sometimes I am unable to completely clear my mind. Do you have any idea how counter-productive it is when you’re trying to meditate and you can’t keep your heart rate down because that fertile imagination is busy picturing a Hugh Jackman massage? It’s frustrating, and that’s not just because of the heart rate issue.
I’m 33 years old, the hormonal equivalent of a teenaged boy. Do you know how frustrating it is to know that you are reaching your sexual peak just when you become the least attractive you’ve ever been? Oh, up until about 30 women just get better and better. (And we glory in that, don’t we girls? You’re damn right we do.) Then you hit thirty-something and you stop improving.
Oh, this isn’t a problem with age I’m having. I’m having a problem with the side effects of age. An overactive libido is the least of it.
I have chin hair and it is grossing me out.Oh, I know. All women get extraneous hair as we age. So it’s not like I’m being singled out for some rare punishment of rampaging hormones or something. I’ve just reached that certain age when we women have to spend a little more time grooming. And by “grooming” I mean “removing unwanted hair, moisturizing drier limbs, worrying about alpha-hydroxy and amino somethings and hyaluranic whatsits and vitamins A-Z, and repairing shit we never had to think about just five years ago but have to contemplate seriously now before it all really starts to go down hill.”
But you know that once you hit a certain age you’ve reached the point of diminishing returns. It’s just one more coat of grey primer on that piece of shit 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity. No matter how much primer is on that damn car and no matter how skillfully you’ve applied it, you know that there’s still rust under the dozen layers of Krylon, problems under the hood because you have to add oil every 700 miles, holes in the seats in which you’ve lost about $47.96 of change, stains on the carpet that seem to spell ominous messages like “666” and “rot in HELL” and “Diet Prudie!”, cracks in the window that get bigger every Winter, and duct tape holding up the headliner when it’s not humid outside. Before you know it, you’ve spent more money on the primer than the KBB value of the car.
I don’t mind getting older. Truly. It’s just the mess that comes with it that bugs me. And amidst all of this, I try to meditate. Nothing doing.
Excuse me. I’m out to buy more primer. And possibly a rabbit.
LATER: I’m fine. Really. I think this is the aforementioned frustration talking here. It’s not fair. Just when women’s libidos start to hit warp speed, men’s libidos slow to keep pace with a snail. OK. I’m finished whining now. Thanks for the shoulder and all that. Mwah!