Jen Laird White

Okay, truth.  It stinks getting older.  It happens, I knew it was happening, I could see the crinkles next to my eyes, on my cheeks, on my upper lip.  I told myself that they were signs of all of the good times I’d had.  But this morning, the belly button.  The damned belly button is drooping.  I kid you not and now I’m afraid.  I mean, what good times did I ever have that should result in a droopy belly button?  When did my belly button ever smoke a cigarette, sleep with an inappropriate man or toss back four martinis and stumble home.  My face did that.  Maybe even my arms and legs.  But my belly button was silent and well behaved.  It never lived large. And now it’s going.  This is a sign, a sign of aging gone wild, a melting of flesh, a dripping off the bones that can only end in a turkey gobble neck and strange black shoes worn with socks and sup hose because nothing else will fit over your lower legs.  It will be all over when my inner wrists get fleshy.