Something funny’s going on here. I can’t prove it, and I can’t seem to catch anyone in the act, but sometimes in the last couple of years someone’s trading places with me.
First it was the hair; stealing some of mine and replacing it with some shades of grey. I didn’t notice right away, because my own is streaked with blonde and only close inspection under fluorescence gave the game away. Then, cell by cell, new skin. This one has wrinkles as likely she (I hope that it’s a she or I’m in for some really odd surprises!) is quite a bit larger than I and sags a bit in places. I wore mine smooth and tight, the sixties style of leotards and classic lines.
But this, this I can’t accept: Jelly arms that look like thighs against my sides! All I can do is lie awake and try to catch her in the act; this act of growing older.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I love your writing. This could make a good poem, you know.
Well, you’d obviously have to de-prose it. :o)
Actually, the idea stuck with me all day yesterday and I’m thinking more of a short story, rather dark and with a strange ending.
When you catch her, don’t let her go till you find out who her cohorts are.
One of ’em’s been round here lately….
Try telling that to Lindsey Lohan.
Yes, I think you must do something more with this.
“But this, this I can’t accept: Jelly arms that look like thighs against my sides!”
Brilliant! By the way, she has a conspirator in the west who leaves crepey thin skin, like cobwebs around my eyes and is tugging the snug jawline I had and loosening it up night after night. I always fall asleep before I can catch her.