The other day, I took the morning off and went to meet my girlfriend for brunch.
We’ve known each other since we were 13 and suffice to say, we have seen each other through the ages: from the awkward teenage years to our youthful 20s to the current 30s. When we first knew each other, we were mere wisps of girls, at the beginning of our journey. Now, we are mothers to a brood of five in total, over a relatively short span of two years. While we once used to lament our lack of fertility over many cups of tea, we now chat about our kids’ tantrums and illnesses over Whatsapp.
That morning, we looked at each other and said, man, we’ve aged.
And we certainly have. Or at least, I have.
Time is cruel to the human body. So is motherhood.
Oh, I am definitely very happy with my body and thankful that it was able to house and incubate my two babies healthily and safely. But the subsequent months of becoming a mother, that took a toll on my physical health and my looks.
Some days, I look at photos of myself in my 20s and I am startled by just how much I have changed. The youthful vibrance has all but vanished under the yoke of exhaustion. My eyes have seen so much more and the crow’s feet surrounding them are a testament to that. The lines, ah the lines, they have taken over my face and are insidiously creeping about, as if determined to create a network of railway tracks all over.
I’m not enlightened enough to say that what I see reflected in the mirror does not affect me. It does. I sigh and tell the husband that I have aged, and I am most certainly not an example of fine wine and gracious ageing. He says all the right things which makes me feel a tad better but I also know that he is simply being nice.
But at the same time, I am not bothered enough to kill myself over it. I still stick to a relatively simple routine of wash-moisturise-sunblock. No fancy brands, just products you can pick up at the drugstore. Perhaps I am in denial, hah! No, scratch that, it’s mostly because I don’t have time and I really can’t be arsed to apply 10 different serums on my face.
So I suppose I am doomed, really, until my kids start sleeping consistently through the night. Maybe when they turn 18?
I guess now is also the time for me to go into a spiel about how beauty is skin deep and inner beauty matters. And it is true. I am much happier in my 30s than I was in my 20s. And I’d like to think, nay PRAY, that this inner confidence and serenity will eventually find its way to my face.
(Also, I would say botox, except the thought of needles stuck into my face scares the shit outta me.)
Yannisms 