Looking back all those years ago I can’t remember a time when age was an issue for me. In those days we could drink at 18, so 21 was no big deal. I don’t remember 30 as anything worthy of concern. Or 40 or 50. Sixty didn’t really mean anything, for some reason.
In fact, none of those milestone birthdays meant a thing, because I still felt the same inside.
If others treat me differently because of my age–and I’m sure they do–I pay no attention to it. Any of it.
Because I know who I am.
I’m always sad when I read writers who bemoan the loss of their youth, of being considered a sexy-hot-young-thing. Those who rail against the normal signs of aging and who struggle mightily to hide reality with pills and procedures.
They’re not hiding a thing and especially not their desperation.
It’s peculiar to me that the concern isn’t so much being close to death, it’s being considered “not-young.” Maybe translated as “not attractive to men.”
Which seems to be a worse fate.
I don’t agree. I’d like to live healthily as long as I can.
And for some reason, despite being an aging woman–I’m turning 63 tomorrow– with all the same issues as others and maybe even more of them–I’ve never had an issue engaging with quality men.
As my new/old husband said when I pointed out that we had not seen each other in 27 years:
“What–you don’t think I know who you are?”
To my sister-Boomers who are trying so hard to fight the effects of aging, I wish for you this:
A change in focus from how I look to others to staying healthy. Which usually requires no surgery.
And a chance to be at peace with your age.
Age is a blessing, when you consider so many people don’t get there.
Tomorrow, I’ll be celebrating 63 with not a little disbelief, but with a whole lot of joy for the very interesting life that’s been given me.
And the chance to really live it.