Taking a “selfie” has become fraught with horror and dread for me. If I’m honest, in the past I didn’t really have too many objections to having my photo taken as generally speaking I was reasonably happy with how I looked. I was also lucky enough to look younger than my years until relatively recently. This used to be annoying when I was eighteen years old and found it virtually impossible to get into a pub! Although travelling on buses and only paying a child’s fare until I was around twenty five was a perk of looking younger than my years!
Since hitting my fifties however, I have noticed quite a rapid deterioration in my body and face. A two year stint of insomnia has left me not with bags under my eyes, but the luggage equivalent of dirty, great black trunks. My neck, once long and slender and one of my best features is now crepey and slack. My eyes, which were one of the first things people noticed about me, used to be sparkly hazel, large and with long, black lashes. Now they look lack lustre and my eyelashes have shrunk until they have all but disappeared.
Don’t even get me started on my hair. I never dyed it until a few years ago as I always loved the colour of the tresses I was born with. It was a very dark brown/black with flashes of a warmer conker colour when the sun caught it. Now it’s dull and course with not a hint of it’s former lustre and radiance.
So, taking a “selfie” is a depressing exercise for me these days; one that serves to remind me of the relentless march of time, edging me ever nearer to that final journey into oblivion. The salutary slap in the face that ensures I am aware that time is now slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate. With so much I still want to experience in this world, I wonder if time will run out before I’ve even scratched the surface?