My husband is quite used to growing old by himself, I haven’t had a birthday in years.

I was given this as a title at my writing group. (I haven’t had any parts renewed, titivated or restored) It’s pure fiction! Enjoy!

My husband is quite used to growing old by himself, I haven’t had a birthday in years.

I’m more plastic than a Barbie doll, my surgeon’s on speed dial,
wrinkles are for elephants, not for me, it’s far too vile.
My tummy’s tucked and iron flat, they’ve removed the rolls of flab,
my husband’s sworn to secrecy, and he’s not allowed to blab.

Liposuction’s my best friend, it’s vacuumed every inch,
I check on every body part with a tweak and gentle pinch.
The boobs are heading polar north instead of drooping south,
my lips are pert, and micro-filled, I have a pouting mouth.

I’m more manicured than all the lawns at the Chelsea flower show,
there’s really nothing left to chance, if it sags, it has to go.
My mindset is clearly set, in blocks of ten-ton stone,
If there’s any chance of a nip and tuck, I’m on my mobile phone.

My husband’s clocking on the years whilst I refuse to age,
I’ve stopped the clock at thirty-nine and I’m staying on this page.
Botox is my saving grace, I’m filled from top to toe,
contours are for continents, not for me, I’ll have you know.

Rhinoplasty, tummy tucks I’ve had them all to date,
even my teeth have been veneered, and now whiter that my plate.
Nothing is now left to chance, I’m staying thirty-nine,
If my husband wants to age alone, I tell him it’s just fine.

Teresa Harrison-Best
July 2023