The person I used to be no longer exists.

I’m not referring to the inner Tanis, the young woman who was quick to anger, had a smart mouth and liked the taste of her own feet as I often had one or another foot in my mouth.

I’m referring to the outer Tanis, the one who is slowly and perceptibly being ravaged by time. I am no longer the 110 pound 5 foot 8 blonde who wore a size zero and was known for her perky almost non-existent boobs.

While I am still 5’8, I am noticeably curvier; thicker through my waist and sporting a wider rib cage and broad shoulders any linebacker’s mother would be proud of.

My face is starting to line, crinkle at the corners of my eyes and around my mouth and I’m sure it won’t be long before I start to develop neck waddle that hangs and shimmies like a turkey’s with every move I make.

I jump up and down now and I feel the shock waves of flubber roll all the way down to my toes and I am in danger of knocking myself out with my impressive beavertails rack.

I know this is all just the wonderful process of ageing and while I’m glad I’m not ravaged by disease or haven’t been mowed over by a lawn tractor gone wild or mauled by one of my friendly neighbourhood bears, I really could live without the nipple hair that is starting to sprout like a twenty something young man grows chest hair.

Nor did I need to make the recent discovery of one lone chin hair. That’s right people, I’m starting to grow f*cking whiskers.

Laugh now, but let’s see who’s still laughing when I decide to grow out this rogue chin hair and put a bead on it just to feel it flap around in the breeze.

I’m all about aging gracefully and with dignity.

Heh.

While I’m still haunted with memories of the body I used to have, the reality is I wouldn’t trade my current body if it meant getting rid of the person I have grown into. The inner Tanis has matured and I am rather fond of her. I’m finally comfortable in my own skin, even if I do have more of it and it’s slightly sagging and lined. And whiskered.

So I now spend more time in the bathroom shaving and plucking errant body hairs so people don’t mistake me for a man. I’m still sexxay. On the inside. Right?

(Silence. Thanks people.)

Then my husband joked that he was willing to pay for electrolysis so I didn’t start looking like the bearded lady from a traveling circus. Suddenly I knew it was time to address the aging issue on my blog.

Yes, we women age. Some of us more beautifully than others but none of us are immune. So perhaps before you offer up a can of shaving cream to the woman in your life, you should take stock of what is staring back at you, dear husband.

That’s right. I’m going there. I’m pointing out your moobs. Publicly.

You were once my young, buff blonde Boo. There was nary and ounce of fat to be found on you as I routinely ran my hand over your sculpted mid-section.

Why yes, you used to look like this model. Why yes, I did count my stars every night and marvel how lucky I was to have landed such a pretty specimen of manliness as you.

Then, while I was busy giving birth to your babies and growing curvier by the year (and yes, slightly hairier) time had its way with you as well.

Oh, do not fret sweet Boo of mine, you aren’t alone this. Take a look at men everywhere and you will see what I am talking about. It’s the invasion of the moobs.

Don’t worry love. You don’t look like this. Yet.

Moobs are everywhere. All the cool boys have them. And if by some freak of nature a man escapes the freakish fate of man boobs then he’s left to busy himself with the arduous task of wrestling with the decision to try the dreaded comb-over or embrace the bald.

Of course there are men out there that deal with both of these aging issues and let’s just give them a shout out because face it, their ego may need a boost.

So while you are taunting me about that stray black hair growing out my left breast let me remind you, my boobs will never look like this:

In a few years, will you be able to say the same thing?

And while we are on the subject of our bodies, I don’t really appreciate your jokes about my needing support undergarments. Just because I occasionally lube myself up and wriggle into some Spanx doesn’t mean I need to listen to your lame joke about how I need to be spanked.

Keep it up and I swear I’m going to buy you your very own girdle.

You laugh now, but ask the poor dude in Japan who’s wife brought him home a man bra after he poked her in her rolls one too many times.

Personally, I think you’d look really hot in the pink one.

(And why yes, I do realize this post may emphasize the fact I spend entirely too much of my day Googling man boobs and lingerie. Really, I don’t need you to point that out. )

Let’s just make a vow to love one another no matter how time turns our bodies into freaktastic caricatures of our former selves.

I promise to keep on top of the errant whiskers that keep sprouting up if you promise me that one day you will teach me how to do this:

Think of all the fun we’ll have when we are invited out to parties.

Heck, with your manboobs and my chin whiskers I’m sure we could start charging people for the pleasure of our company. We’ll never need to worry about our kids’ college funds again!

Take heart my darling Boo. At least we aren’t alone in this battle of time.

Just take a look at our siblings and let’s thank our parents for giving us the good genes.