BITCHES DONT KNOW BOUT MY PLANTAR FASCIITIS

I am not the ideal subject for this blog; I am just the one who had the idea. I am twenty-nine. I do not have, and never had, a taut and youthful body that I could photograph for the eventual disintegration I promised with the premise. I have, at best, a "classical" body. Therefore I will not be punishing either of us with pictures.

No one would describe me as a vain woman. I wear only the slightest of makeup, the sort that appears to be none at all. I never went blonde or seriously attempted to tan. I was a grim, black-cloaked teenager, who sprayed silver-gray on her hair to look formidable. I was, in short, supposed to be too cool to be so young. And, conversely, too cool to be old.

But plantar fasciitis! The words smell old. They smell like rubber, faintly like worn nylon socks, and distinctly like middle-aged ladies. And I have gone and got it. It was my own fault, for wearing ballet flats without arch support to a hard-walking job. Nevertheless, who does this happen to? Not young, fresh things. Ballet flats are made for the young -- made for scampering, not pounding pavement.

It's hard to watch children and imagine how light their bodies must feel to them -- how light my own bones seemed once.

Welcome to precisely no one as yet

This is a placeholder, or as it is known elsewhere on the internet, the FRIST POST.

I start this to serve as a journal of one woman's aging process as it happens, through her own eyes. I am going to document the transformation of my own body from that of a young woman, through menopause, then to hollow-boned age, just as long as technology permits me to do so.

I don't expect to update it very often, but I will do so indefinitely, for fifty years into the future or however long it may take me. If this service sputters and fails, I'll move on to a new one. If there's one thing that the internet has taught me about technology, it's that whatever we'll be viewing on our retinal screens in 2050 will surely have a cheap free service for the propagation of any fool's ideas, which includes mine.

Over time I will examine the gradual weakening and disintegration of the beauty and then the function of my body, in hopes of pinning down some ribbon or shred, in the words of T.H. White, of "the passionate spirit of innocent youth, now beleaguered by the trick which is played on youth -- the trick of treachery in the body, which turns flesh into green bones."