Ah, those halcyon days of childhood. I still remember that red dress and black heels, the red earrings and matching lipstick, that my mother bought me when I was five years old. “You’re a woman now, my child,” she told me. “You will grow taller, until one day you grow fatter, but nothing else about you will ever change.”

I didn’t know what she meant then. I was so innocent, just a kindergartener with fully developed breasts, still learning how to stand with my feet pointing in different directions. But oh, would I learn! I learned to go to the Women Store, where they sold the exact same outfit and makeup, just scaled upwards for taller and taller women. I ignored the section for old women, those hags of 35 and up, who scuttled in and out of the store, clearly rightfully embarrassed by their larger sizes. I never thought it would happen to me. But on my 35th birthday, just like every other woman, I felt the great Photoshop of life resizing me. But not upwards, oh no! Now my growth was horizontal. I still look like myself, of course, exactly the same face, the same outfit that my mother gifted me when I was a wee babe of five years old. But now my body is stretched and deformed.

I am 45 now. Soon, I will be \[. . . .\] years old. (The true number is too horrifying to say.) My daughter is four, and I am nearly as wide as she is tall. One day soon I will buy her a red dress and black heels of her very own. The life-cycle will continue. And I? I will disappear, vanishing into the mists like my own mother before me. We do not know what happens to women when they pass that threshold, that \[. . . .\]. But I am about to find out.

source: r/badwomensanatomy