“I’ve turned into a klutz.  My balance is bad, half the time I can’t hear and my vision is going.  The other day my husband said something to me and I totally misheard what he said.  What’s wrong with me?”  Those were my sister’s words during our recent phone conversation.  It was her delivery that left me laughing, a mixture of aggravation and disbelief rolled with her words upon the reoccurring realization that our youthfulness has packed up and left the country.  It’s a bitter pill to swallow.  My Dad tried to warn us. “This getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but what’s the alternative.” he’d always say. 

        Not only has our youth departed, but everything else seems to be moving south, and not just for the winter either.  I walk by a store window and wonder who that frumpy middle aged woman is who seems to accompany me everywhere I go. 

Overweight, overwrought and unrecognizable to old friends and acquaintances, I’ve been mistaken for a home health care nurse and repeatedly asked “now who are you?” by friends I’ve known since grade school.  Needless to say, I have since given up white pants and sworn off class reunions. 

I vote that my sisters and I go for an extreme makeover.   Perhaps the ticket is a little Botox, collagen, plastic surgery and porcelain caps to correct all the imperfections and we could star on our own “housewives” reality show.  There’s nothing like looking like a bee stung, expressionless wannabe who drips in diamonds, pearls and designer attire while suffering through a wine and cheese tasting party with people you can’t bear. 

We may as well face the truth.  It would take a lot of tugging, pulling, stapling and stitching to return some of us middle-aged women to our former glory.