Today, I bid a bon voyage to my colleague and friend, Kim, who is, right this second, gasping at the discovery of being the subject of today’s blog post. Hopefully she is also, right this second, showing the good people of St. Petersburg, Florida how to rock a two-piece bikini in your forties. Holla.
To look fabulous after the age of 30 is no small feat, and our feet are not the half of it. Every year brings a new blemish, a new chin whisker, a new dimple of ass lard, a new wrinkle. And there’s nothing ‘new’ about any of it. I expect full bulldog status by age 65, with extra crinkly cleavage. Not even the low-hanging boobs will stretch it smooth. Fuck.
Having children compounds the effects of aging tenfold. The sleep deprivation. The excess stomach skin that should be donated to burn victims. The lack of actual exercise. (No, ladies, watching your kid at the pool does not mean you are swimming.)
And eventually, the little friggers also learn to speak — so they not only cause aging, they also casually remind us that we’re fossils. This is where Ryan, Kim’s ever curious seven-year-old son, comes in.
Kim has managed to slide into her forties with the firmness of a Bartlett pear, and without being shaped like one. But she can always count on Ryan to keep her humble… and at least partially clothed.
A few years back when he was just a toddler, Kim had taken him with her to the restroom at Zellers. The bathroom was full. With Ryan by the hand, she squeezed into a free stall and proceeded to sit down to pee.
“Mommy, where is your pee coming from?” Ryan inquired.
Kim pointed in the general direction of her urine factory. “Here.” Then she began to change the subject, knowing the bathroom was full and this conversation could get tangly.
But quicker than lightning (and louder than thunder), Ryan exclaimed “You mean that big, black, furry spot?”
Old ladies who had just indulged in the $2.99 Zellers breakfast collectively gasped.
At age seven, Ryan’s curiosity is fully intact. Just a few weeks ago when Kim was changing, Ryan asked her why he didn’t have boobs like she did. Kim explained that he did have boobs, but because he was a boy his were different than hers. Ah yes, now he understood, as his reply clearly indicates:
“Yeah mom, yours are much longer.”
For KIm’s sake, I will resist the urge to sketch her with the visuals Ryan’s words so vividly paint. Picture a stick woman with two pepperoni sticks on her chest that lead the eye down down down to a big, black furry spot.
Enjoy your vacation, Kim, Bruce and Ryan. Make memories while swinging your mammaries. And if at any time Ryan makes you feel old and decrepit, just look around: St. Pete is where old, rich people go to die. You’re babies. Smell that? That’s not suntan lotion, honey. That’s Bengay.