I’m Not a Barbie Doll

I’m not in my early thirties, anymore. Someone told me that I “looked like a Barbie doll”, the other day. When I was in my teens and twenties, I heard things like that. It’s been awhile, though.

Most days, I put some effort into how I look. I very rarely wear just a t-shirt or sweatpants. I think I own maybe three to five t-shirts. Most of my wardrobe is tank tops, or crop tops/tank tops with a sweater or plaid shirt over. I have a ridiculous amount of blue jeans in my closet. I might have a problem with hoarding blue jeans. I wear black leggings often, too. I also love jackets. Any and all jackets. I’ve never bought a purse. Ever. All of the ones I’ve had I got as gifts from family or friends. I couldn’t care less about those. Unless it’s the Louis Vuitton. I am a little bit crazy about that one. I have had the same pair of sneakers since…gosh? Probably since my daughter was a baby. I have a whole lot of boots, heels, and sandals. I do like to look nice. I mostly put in effort for Adam, though. I don’t really care that much anymore about what anyone else thinks. I wanted to cut my hair to just below my shoulders and Adam made a face. I didn’t end up cutting my hair. After our wedding, I donated 14 inches of my hair to a wig charity for children and women with cancer. My hair was just at my shoulders for awhile, after that. I think that’s the only time I’ve had “short” hair. I guess I’ve grown up. I hadn’t really thought much about it, until I got called “Barbie”. It’s always nice to have someone compliment you, I just don’t live to impress anyone other than Adam. I mentioned to him that I’d discussed Botox with someone and he told me “absolutely not!” He doesn’t think I need it. So, I told him I was going to do it and see if he noticed. He assured me that he would notice. I told him that I, clearly, needed it then! It’s not because I feel the need to impress other men or women. It’s because I can see myself changing everyday, when I look in the mirror. I want Adam to always think I’m beautiful. I’m very afraid to get old. My kids already think I’m old! Hell, twenty year old me would’ve called me old now. Maybe it’s vain of me?

It’s deeper than just superficial outer beauty that I’m afraid to lose with age. Yes, that scares me, but my mother, and her mother let themselves go. It was almost as if they wanted to be old women. They gained weight. Stopped trying. They spent most of their time “doctor shopping”, looking for whatever drugs they could get prescribed. I can still do my moves from cheerleading in high school! One handed cartwheels, handstands. I can go outside and jump on the trampoline with the kids. I can keep up with them at the park. I don’t groan and struggle everyday when I get out of bed. I’m not up all night because something hurts. I’m horny almost all the time! Our friends can’t believe how much sex Adam and I have. I’m terrified to lose these things. I don’t want my body to go to hell. I don’t want to let my mind deteriorate. As the age or forty looms where I can see it coming, my fears grow. I don’t want to be a plastic, fake, “real housewives” looking bimbo. I only wish I could know what my future looks like. Will Adam still think I’m pretty in 10, 20, 30 years? Will my kids have kids that I can still play out in the yard with? What if I turn into a burden for my family? My greatest fear is to be like my mother, and her mother. My hope, is that I can be like my dad, and his side of my family. My grandma, his mom, is still beautiful. She never acts “old”. She still gardens, paints, loves to cook and bake. She lives at the same home my dad and his siblings were raised in. She’s so tough, and she’s had her share of heartache. She has, around, 25 great grandchildren, and my sister’s about to give her another! My dad just turned 60 years old. He’s in great shape. He’s healthy. He’s active. He’s still nowhere near ready to retire and sit in a rocking chair waiting to die. Please, God, let me be like that!