Often I find myself wishing I could shed my skin, like the snake I was sometimes compared to, after I'd shrugged off a relationship gone bad much like an itchy sweater shed.
All the scars that marred me vanishing into an accordion of yesterdays blues crumpled on the back lawn.
Dancing with sinew-ed muscles stretched with elation under freshly renewed flesh to the music of mimes, lest I trouble my neighbors with my "Never metamorphosis I didn't like."
But age is a strong glue, it only lets go a bit at a time, leaving some sags and wrinkles in the upholstery I am now couched with.
Not nearly vain enough to start slapping on promises from two ounce bottles of cow placenta and grape-seed extracts.
Sadly my anorexic wallet sits far to lean of the plastic it takes to rebuild my youth, so I squint a bit when I am facing the mirror that I now consider to be a pathological liar.
Thus I am forced to grow older gracefully, sidestepping the exuberant toddlers who will eventually replace me, and forcing myself to chuckle when they play with the slightly evident wattle that is beginning to haunt my chin.