Old skin, young bottom. Yikes.

Following my last post, written sometime in the last century, I have had a number of people ask me if that’s me in a swimming costume and snorkel set in the photo. The woman being chased by a gigantic frog in marshland somewhere in the world where frogs are gigantic. Well, no, that is not me. I am glad to say it’s not me for 2 reasons: 1/ I am not as wobblesome nor as pasty as that woman, and 2/ I have never been chased by a gigantic leering frog. However, I reckon that woman must have a wicked sense of humour as the photo makes me laugh every time I look at it. And to write the last five sentences I have just looked at the photo at least six times, resulting in precisely six laughs/grins. This may be a sign that tonight I have little to laugh about, or it may just be that that pasty, wobblesome woman in a snorkel set is a fine comic actress. Or maybe it’s just that I am a strange, twisted soul.

I searched for a photo of me in a swimming costume and then thought how utterly pointless it would be to post it up on my blog. Either I choose a good photo of me in a swimming costume, which would just be vain and boring and annoying, or I choose a crap photo of me in a swimming costume which would be brave but just as boring. And that set me wondering whether I will actually wear a swimming costume this year as we live in the south of France where you can usually count on it being hot and sunny from April until November, but this spring it has turned into the Outer Hebrides (I had to just check that the Outer Hebrides are where I thought they were, and they are, they haven’t moved, phew) so I don’t reckon I’ll be putting my winter boots, woolly tights and scarves away this year.

This may be a good thing. At least for my sun-damaged skin. Sorry, sun-destroyed skin. Sun-ravaged-and-ruined skin. Sun-totally-fucked skin. My step-mother makes soaps and skin creams and serums and when I pointed out the 8 zillion lines and creases around my eyes and criss-crossing my face and cleavage and entire body, and asked why oh why oh WHY, she screwed her nose up in a sort of apologetic manner as if there really wasn’t much she could do for me and replied “well, you know, sun-damage”. This made me fast face up to the reality of my sun-baked childhood years in Egypt, Ghana and Brazil and then summer holidays in France soaking up as much sun as I could take without turning into a cockroach or a cactus. It also sealed my fate. There is nothing you can do for sun-damaged skin except accept the fact your face is lined and always will be.

My skin is ten years older than it should be. But my bottom is 20 years younger than it should be. This makes it very confusing for people meeting me on the beach. I have turned into one of those women who look pretty hot from the back, and then the woman turns around and you realise she is old enough to be your granny and you wish she hadn’t turned around or at least that you hadn’t seen her bottom. Those women used to give me the creeps. And now I am one of them.

So I went to a beauty shop to ask what skin protection I should wear on my face and the woman handed me a balaclava.

That last sentence was a lie. But it could well happen. Which is why I’m not going near any beauty shops. I am pretending that “beauty” is not for me. Nah, I don’t care, me. As long as I’m healthy, who cares about looking young and gorgeous? Not me. Honest. HONEST, REALLY I DON’T CARE. What? The bottle of Argan oil on my dresser? No, I had no idea it’s meant to make SUN-DAMAGED SKIN look smoother, what a total and utter coincidence. What? Photoshopping photos of my face? Blurring out the lines? ME? Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Honest, I don’t care about beauty and stuff. No, really. Honest. I’m just happy my kids are healthy. Pass me that skin rejuvenating laser machine thing, please.

Wrinkled skin? Wear a balaclava.

Wrinkled skin? Wear a balaclava.