As I very recently found myself being hurled towards the tender young age of 39, I could not help but beg (and I mean, literally, BEG) the question: "Whose skin am I in?!"
Though people typically warn each other that the higher you climb, the greater your chances of becoming frightened if you look down, I am just one of those people who has to witness the precipice for myself. So, just as I reached the 39th rung of the maturity ladder, I couldn't help but cast my eyes down "below" to that which had been and was never more to be.
I truly didn't think that there could be a whole lot more to this aging thing than the tell-tale gray hairs growing atop my head or the infamous "crows feet" I so poorly disguised beneath a mound of face cream, and yet, my gaze was met with....
How did these "trespassers of time" get to hitch a ride on my body without even paying a fare?! I would've charged.
After I stopped hyperventilating and talked myself slowly through the painstaking reality that my skin was not this prune-like because I had just emerged from a luxurious, hours-long bubble bath, I took a deep breath and accepted the inevitable.
Now, because I am a photographer, I have trained myself to look at things from every vantage point possible. When the shadows obscure one's face, I move the subjects or myself. When a certain "mood" is in order, I adjust my settings. And, depending on the circumstances, I may lie on the floor or even climb up a steep ravine in order to capture the perfect perspective.
Yet, I am slowly beginning to succumb to the harsh reality that my current vantage point is just, well... it's just... as some like to say, "It is what it is." And, I guess there's really only one logical answer to my initial appeal. Indeed, the skin that I am in is not that of a dead, plucked, ready-to-be-roasted at 350 degrees piece of poultry. No, the skin that I am in is not that of someone twice my age multiplied by 5... thousand.
The skin I'm in is mine. It's native. It's been with me the entire time, and it tells a story. A story of growth, a story of development, of progress and learning. Yea, it tells a tale of maturity. Thus, I suppose that I should lay aside the attitudes of the day, the prevalent posture of society and stop trying to hold back the hands of time. For those are the only hands that don't require moisturizers or sloughing.
Though people typically warn each other that the higher you climb, the greater your chances of becoming frightened if you look down, I am just one of those people who has to witness the precipice for myself. So, just as I reached the 39th rung of the maturity ladder, I couldn't help but cast my eyes down "below" to that which had been and was never more to be.
I truly didn't think that there could be a whole lot more to this aging thing than the tell-tale gray hairs growing atop my head or the infamous "crows feet" I so poorly disguised beneath a mound of face cream, and yet, my gaze was met with....
THE SHRIVELED UP HANDS OF A
WRINKLY 150-YEAR OLD WOMAN!
How did these "trespassers of time" get to hitch a ride on my body without even paying a fare?! I would've charged.
After I stopped hyperventilating and talked myself slowly through the painstaking reality that my skin was not this prune-like because I had just emerged from a luxurious, hours-long bubble bath, I took a deep breath and accepted the inevitable.
Now, because I am a photographer, I have trained myself to look at things from every vantage point possible. When the shadows obscure one's face, I move the subjects or myself. When a certain "mood" is in order, I adjust my settings. And, depending on the circumstances, I may lie on the floor or even climb up a steep ravine in order to capture the perfect perspective.
Yet, I am slowly beginning to succumb to the harsh reality that my current vantage point is just, well... it's just... as some like to say, "It is what it is." And, I guess there's really only one logical answer to my initial appeal. Indeed, the skin that I am in is not that of a dead, plucked, ready-to-be-roasted at 350 degrees piece of poultry. No, the skin that I am in is not that of someone twice my age multiplied by 5... thousand.
The skin I'm in is mine. It's native. It's been with me the entire time, and it tells a story. A story of growth, a story of development, of progress and learning. Yea, it tells a tale of maturity. Thus, I suppose that I should lay aside the attitudes of the day, the prevalent posture of society and stop trying to hold back the hands of time. For those are the only hands that don't require moisturizers or sloughing.
*crying*
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