Ever had an ugly year? I’ve had many. I grew up in the damned Eighties, for crying out loud. I wore yoga pants with cerise leg warmers and jelly shoes. If you’re too young to know what jelly shoes are, they look as they sound: like jelly. That’s one of a trillion reasons nobody escaped that decade with their dignity intact. The second is Rick Astley. I’ll spare you the rest.
Until recently, my ugly years could only go in one direction: towards better things. When Father Time is your bitch, all you need to do is buy a treadmill and find a new hair stylist. Father Time isn’t my bitch anymore. Apparently, at this age, you’re supposed to start wearing purple with a red hat that doesn’t go, but I doubt even Jenny Joseph followed that rule.
My hair stylist found grey in my hair. I don’t think finding a new stylist will fix this one. Nor will ignoring my wrinkles in the mirror.
Speaking of lines, I didn’t get those sexy crow’s feet everyone else has. Nope. I got wrinkles on my left eyelid. My right eyelid says, “Fuck you, Father Time. I’m not done being 20.” I got a raw deal: lopsided ageing, as though Benjamin Button got lost in a black hole during an acid trip. Not to worry. I’ll just spend the rest of my life facing sideways. I can totally pull that off sexily.
Wrinkles aren’t the worst of ageing when you have a vagina. Mother Nature decided it was an excellent idea to make women ugly at the precise second we hit our sexual peaks. Men enjoy their sluttiest years when they’re in good shape. Us? As soon as it’s harder to get laid, we want to get laid the most. That’s why I’m an atheist–I don’t worship assholes.