I am straying from my usual ramblings this week about horses, mountains, and such, and delving into the unfamiliar territory of women’s obsession with the world of beauty, and being a thirty-something that is easily reeled in due to the first signs of aging. Trust me, this is still a cowgirl’s feeble approach to finding her own way through this madness.
Women work overtime to keep the aging process at bay these days, and being pretty just ain’t real pretty. First off, it’s tough to decide which beauty regiment to adhere to. I found that it takes me so long to follow directions of the night time regimescrubs and lotions, that by the time I finish, it’s time to start the morning one. And the term “beauty sleep” is just false advertisement. Usually I need a coma in order to avoid waking up looking like a troll.
Then there is hair dye. There are two approaches to taming pesky grays: 1. I can pay a professional a steep price, take in a picture of my favorite Hollywood glamour girl, and pray for miraculous results. (The only way I will look like Ashley Judd is if someone staples the picture to my forehead!) Or… 2. I can attempt this process myself by guessing what shade of box color to buy from the store. This is usually where I see a young girl with 40 shades of purple, black, and green, and decide walking away from the aisle is money well saved.
The cosmetics aisle lures me in with promises of fuller lips, longer lashes, whiter teeth, better skin, and less hair in the places I don’t want it. (This is the place my husband avoids at all cost and says he will be in the sporting goods section if and when I am ever ready.) I walk out with volumizing shampoo, new tweezers, some sort of smoky shade of eye shadow, and teeth whitening strips, and broke.
Of course there is also exercise to take into consideration. Long gone are the perky twenties, and I’m facing the falling forties and fifties. This is when I find myself on the treadmill with bad knees, a popped lung and a skinny blond girl running Mach 1 next to me and wishing I’d given up ice cream and my delicious, morning, foamy lattes.
I could go on and on about endless beauty options and ideas available these days that promise a youthful, firmer, more glamorous me, but when it comes down to it, I’m working on realizing that youth simply fades, but modesty and grace never grow old. Ladies, take the time to remember who you were before the world told you who you should be. You can take no credit for your beauty at 20, but when you are still beautiful at 60+, you can thank your beautiful heart and soul. We are the most beautiful version of ourselves when camping with our kids, smiling at our special guy, sharing time with our parents and grandparents, and just simply being us.