QMusings

I had purchased a digital camera and been playing with it. With the help of a mirror and the LCD screen, I’d managed to take some headshots of myself. If you haven’t attempted such self-portraits, I should forewarn you that a photo taken at arm’s length by yourself will result in something bizarre and scary. Think of what your friends look like through the peephole in your front door. Psychotic.

Despite the madness that seemed to glow from my bugged eyes and distorted forehead, I noticed that I had a chin. At first I didn’t believe it. I thought it was a product of the camera angle and the extreme close-up. I was skeptical. I hadn’t had a definitive jawline in years. I would either have too many chins or none at all.

I took more photos and got better with the camera-mirror combination. I looked at the results. I went through 3 phases of Eve: Denial. Hope. Belief. Yes. I had a chin. A chin. One.

I’ve recently entered my 4th decade. This means I have to have annual mammograms. This means my hormone levels are steadily dropping. This means that all sorts of things on me will start dropping unless I take some serious measures to prevent them. I am still coming to grips with this. Acceptance sucks and guess what, wisdom ain’t sexy.

Speaking of sexy, I am no longer viewed as a sex object. In men’s eyes, I am female, but inert. “Lacking a usual or anticipated chemical or biological action.”

Biologically, I am past due. It’s not that I want to be seen as a sex object, but I’d gotten used to stirring a certain level of … interest when meeting a group of men. Men are always scanning – it’s a primal sub-process that rates women on their reproductive viability. In the distant past, this was nature’s way of insuring that the fittest survived – men were driven to plant their DNA into fertile ground.

In modern times, it’s less about DNA planting and more about bone jumping. A man can scan a group of women and in less time it takes to blink, know which ones he’d like to jump. Yeah, no, yeah-yeah-yeah, oh…yeeeaah.

I’m not even a blip on the scanner.

I’d like to have a boyfriend, so I continue to spend too much time worrying about my appearance. Which is why I was so excited to see my chin again. A single chin meant I’d lost weight and men like slim women, so my chances for attracting men would increase, right?

Chin or chins, I’m still inert.

Acceptance sucks.

Perhaps unrealistically, I will continue to run, lift weights and smear pricey creams on my face in the hopes of blipping the scanner.

And in the meantime, I’ll do what I always do: I’ll take in on the chin.

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