The Decrepitude Chronicles Part... Oh, I Can't Remember

Apparently, I need botox injections.{g}

Three times in the last month, different people have complained about my face. Not always *to* my face, either. I've heard from others that my 'face was like thunder' or that I looked 'horrified'. And one friend told me I looked angry during a conversation I had with her.

This is quite baffling to me as I wasn't angry or horrified on any of these occasions. I'm sad that I must have a face that 'looks like thunder'. Last night, I sat down in front of a lighted mirror to cooly evaluate my 50 year old face.

Well, it's not great.

Gravity has taken its toll. I have open pores and acne scars and wrinkles. My eyes have lost their upward slants and are heavy lidded now. If I lie on my back, my face looks more like I remember it. And if I lean forward and tuck the mirror underneath me, I have a scary glimpse into my face's future.{g}

I turn sideways and then I notice them. Three lines down between what's left of my eyebrows. (Overplucking during teenage years!) Ugh! In a certain light, they make me look cross. Even when I'm SMILING. Oh no! This is really depressing.

I guess it's a childhood of being frightened and confused, all the years in my twenties of squinting in strong sunlight and the years of worrying in my thirties, and all the years of attempting to read small print, (before realising I needed reading glasses) in my forties, all catching up with me. That must be it, because I'm not an angry, horrified type of person. But my face has a permanent frown now.

What can I do? Don't worry, I'm not seriously considering botox. But people judge your character from your facial expressions.

I really don't like getting older.

The only thing I can think of to rescue myself from this sad realisation is to remember that my husband loves my face. He kisses it and everything! {g} He calls me his Babe. (Weird man.) He even tells me I'm beautiful.

And that reminds me of someone who loves me even more than Jamie does. Someone who doesn't care about my facial expressions, who only sees my soul. Someone who loved me so much he was prepared to die for me, even the ignominious, painful death of a criminal, on a cross.

As my furrowed brow continues to alarm my friends and as I'm seemingly unable to prevent false impressions of my true feelings, I know the future may be difficult. But, even as I slide deeper into Decrepitude and the Mentalpause, I have a wonderful Saviour who knows me inside out.

And still loves me.