The world is crazier than most people know. But I know. I was a clinical social worker for forty years. I am a witness. I retired from social work to write about the sad, the mad, and the savage; with whom I have spent most of my life. I have decided to translate these stories into fiction, because, as a co-worker once said, "You couldn't make this sh*t up. No one would believe you."

Saturday, July 31, 2010

THE BANE OF THE BABY BOOMER: SKIN

I discovered the absolute truth of aging: it is skin. Not your brain, you can keep that sharp by using it. Not your muscle tone, you can keep that up with exercise. Not your endurance, if you made it this far you are tougher than a witch’s brass bra.

It’s your skin. Sixty four years and uncounted sums spent on skin creams later, I have discovered the truth: of all the body systems, skin is independent.


The circulatory system, the brain and nervous system, digestion and skeletal systems….these guys all work together. But skin must have cut a deal with God that it would work with the team for a certain number of years, then it could head out on its own. Somewhere in the fifties, it does so. Although it is still attached to muscle, it finds a way to stretch beyond imagining and then….DROP.

Skin does this quietly, while you sleep, so that you don’t hear the plop! when it hits the ground. But one morning you wake up and find your jowls on your shoulders, your knees underneath themselves, and your thighs…well, we won’t go there, it’s too scary. You stand up and your skin doesn’t. You turn around and your skin catches up a moment later.

Enter the savior: the plastic surgeon with his merry grin and handy scalpel. But wait…he wants to be paid…quite a lot actually. Insurance doesn’t cover his services. Imagine! My skin wandered off on its own and that is not considered a health problem!

I have been saving for plastic surgery for fifteen years now. I realize now I should have started saving when I was born. With inflation, my savings account can barely stand to look at itself. Every time I get close to having the dough something expensive happens. By the time I have the money, my only hope will be for a surgeon to cut a hole in the top of my head and just pull my entire body up.

Maybe the answer is to put a good PR team on the problem and make sagging skin beautiful in the minds of all. Waist level boobs will rule, dimpled thighs will be decorated with spangles, and baggy eyes will be the bomb.

Uh…barf!

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