THE WALKING TENT

As we grow older there is a tendency to shrug off any concerns we may have about how we look and how we feel. Many of us have reconciled ourselves, either consciously or subconsciously to the state of ‘what you see is what you get’ and we simply don’t worry any more. On the other hand, there are people who do care how they look and how they feel, but they hide this concern very well.

Speaking for myself, I am definitely of the ‘what you see is what you get’ variety, except for one thing – weight. That is something I do care about, very much and it drives me mad. When I retired I was delighted to assume the mantle of “The Walking Tent”. For me, the incentive to be a specimen of the perfect woman disappeared immediately when I no longer had to go out to work.

So, I now get up in the morning and throw on The Walking Tent, a loose garment that hides a multitude of sins, or a pair of jeans and top two sizes too big for me, which fools me into thinking that I’ve lost weight. A feeling that persists until I get on the scales and then all hell breaks out.

Make-up, what’s that? I’d almost forgotten to mention that. Who is left to impress. I think my husband regards me as part of the furniture, so I don’t invest in the effort to ‘tart’ myself up – who cares?

Being on the latter side of sixty tends to encourage us to cocoon, perhaps even more so if the scales are governing our lives. If, because of our somewhat large frames, we suffer from pangs of lack of self-confidence, remaining at home provides us with a marvelous reason to enjoy our solitude and become thoroughly antisocial.

Perhaps in the end, we tend to view our physical selves as something resembling bean bags, or soufflés on the verge of collapse. We make sure that the number of mirrors in the house are receding in size and quantity but are grateful that our bodies continue to serve us well. Some of us take an occasional peek into the remaining mirror and have seen the drooping boobs, the slightly wrinkled face and the sagging muscles on various parts of ourselves. We see and accept these facts, but we don’t worry about them because why should we? No matter what anyone will tell you, we still feel the same as we felt in our twenties and the bikini days are long past worrying about.

Perhaps the other side of the argument is that we should care – for a variety of reasons. Caring about ourselves engenders an interest in caring about other people. Caring about other people prohibits us from becoming selfish and antisocial. Caring what we look like gives us confidence in ourselves and maybe a new interest in improving our ho-hum routine. But, possibly, I just can’t be bothered; you get like that, you know.

Perhaps we should cater to those who ‘care’ in another blog spot.