Odd the things that bother you about getting old. Nora Ephron felt bad about her neck, but me…I miss my waist.
Vestiges of it tease me in the morning mirror. Nothing Scarlet O’Hara worthy, mind you, but a slight concave-ness that reminds me of my younger years. Then after breakfast it’s disappeared, leaving a sturdy babushka in its place. I miss that dead space above my hips. Having something to park my hands on while my face does that, “You did what?” expression.
I know. I’m part of that subsection of people for whom gravity pulls harder. Knocking inches off my height and squishing out my sides like pulled taffy.
But it’s not just the absence of a shape I once had; it’s what it signifies. The gradual thickening connotes an acceptance of the status quo. A settling, not just of my middle parts, but also of everything in my life.