Going Feral

If pressed, or even wrinkled, I would have to admit that I had begun going feral before all this self-isolation thing made it acceptable. I think maybe when I became officially old, when I became eligible for Medicare, I felt entitled to some of the benefits of senior citizenry.

At some point I noticed that no matter how much effort I put into looking my best, the difference between the before and after just wasn’t that noticeable. I quit wearing makeup. Never having been any great beauty, and having rather enjoyed the nickname, “Butterface” because of its implication of other more favorable attributes, it didn’t take long to get comfortable with my aging face.

Hair removal, which has long been a cornerstone of societal standards of pulchritude, fell by the wayside for me. Why do we need to shave our armpits in the winter time when we don’t perspire much and nobody sees our arms above the elbow? Same goes for legs; I don’t EVER show my legs in public so why should I concern myself with incriminating dark hair below my knees? My husband, with his failing vision, thinks I’m beautiful with or without hair.

And speaking of keeping up the illusion that I am a blonde Dutch woman, I started going longer and longer between hair coloring, accepting the brown and enthusiastically embracing the gray. Gray IS the new blonde, you know!

Then came the widow’s friend, Covid-19. (Friend, only if you believe that once your husband is gone, only death awaits.) Woe to the woman who spent years at home because her husband didn’t want to travel and eagerly awaited his departure for greener pastures so she could take that world cruise!

Ah, but there is a silver lining. Silver hair is only one of the linings. A French braid is done up in a minute or two while the curling iron and blow dryer languish in the cabinet. Underwire bras, once so essential to lift and separate, and make us snappish by the end of the day, similarly disintegrate in the lingerie drawer. My record for going bra-less so far is six days. Floors that needed to be vacuumed on Saturday can now be done tomorrow…or sometime later. Besides, who knows when it’s Saturday? And best of all, the personnel committee that thought they couldn’t get by without me coming into the office FIVE days a week when I asked for four, now find that I can work quite nicely from home all but one day a week. Works for me!

Butterface Mountain biking in the age of Covid-19.