The dangers of being pretty

When I was young, I was pretty, or so I was told.  Being pretty is valuable, but also dangerous.  I came to depend on my looks to get me things:  attention, compliments, boys.  Pretty is fleeting, and irreplaceable for those who depend on its power.  I try to keep myself attractive; it's ingrained in me.  But, my skin is sagging and there's no hiding that, short of covering up every inch.  I read that Jane Fonda said that her character in the Netflix series "Grace and Frankie" covers everything; as I watched the show, I realized that I never see the characters' arms or legs.  We do see their faces; I know that plastic surgery enabled that.  I'm not being judgmental or unkind; appearances are inordinately important for people who are in the public eye.  

 When my son was three years old, I enrolled him in a preschool.  On the first day, the teacher asked each new enrollee about themselves and about what they had done during the summer vacation.  Dan said, "I visited my wiggly grandmom."  "Why is your grandmom wiggly?" asked the teacher.  "Because," Dan said, "when you touch her arm, it wiggles back and forth."  Minus the grandchildren, I have become the wiggly grandmom. 

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