 Other than a bag of Oreos, gravity is a woman's worst enemy. Around
middle age, everything starts sagging like a slow-moving mudslide.
We know that eventually our breasts are going to blend into our
stomachs and no one will know whether we are coming or going unless
we are wearing a belt buckle. It's like the grill on the front of a
Mack truck.
Let's face it, in middle age, the hair on our heads starts to
evacuate like there's been a fire drill and relocates itself onto
our faces. Never before has an item been so constantly our companion
as our tweezers.
Sagging hairy jowls, grandma's mustache and a jutting unibrow --
we have all the markings of a Neanderthal. It's no wonder that the
beauty industry is thriving. We are desperate to reclaim the face
and body we know we already had somewhere. It's there; we just have
to find it.
Where is it? Gravity claimed it. Oh gravity, thou art a heartless
witch!
I was shopping for a suit for a special occasion recently.
Everything I tried on looked as though it belonged on someone much
taller and 60 pounds lighter. I looked like a Weeble.
I thought, "Where is that fabulous rack I used to have 20 years
ago?" The suit looked like I'd swallowed a throw pillow and it got
stuck halfway down.
As I wandered around the store bemoaning my dumpy state and
wishing gravity would go find another planet to live on, I came
across the lingerie department. The undergarments I was forced to
consider bore no resemblance whatsoever to what I had always thought
was lingerie.
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 These were what my mother calls "foundation." Well, I thought, I
suppose if you want to build a brick house, you have to start with a
good foundation. They were made of whalebone, titanium and, I
suspected, a material that might be used in the after-burners of the
space shuttle. These hearty undergarments could squeeze and tuck 20
years off my frame if I could just get into one. Ladders should be
installed in the changing rooms so you can simply leap into what you
want to try on.
The first one I tried winded me with the effort, and then I
couldn't suck in enough air to keep me from falling into a dead
faint. Perhaps I was a little too optimistic on the size.
The second one I tried on made me sigh in relief. There's that
rack! I knew it was there somewhere! Welcome home, old friend! The
only problem was that now my breasts looked like they were equipped
with nuclear warheads -- like Madonna in her cone costume. Hmm.
Nope. I don't think so.
The third one was little more subtle in the warhead area but was
completely see-through. It was like it was saying: "I may be
something your grandmother would wear, but I've got sex appeal!"
That's what I like: undergarments with attitude. As if I would ever
let anyone see me in that.
Liposuction, Botox, collegen injections, anti-wrinkle lotions,
cellulite zappers and underwear that finds your 20-year-old body. I
may not be able to fight gravity alone, but at least the "The
Resistance" is on my side.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
You can reach the writer at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com. Or visit
www.lauraonlife.com for
more columns and info about her new book.
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