There was a time when I saw older performers i.e. actors, singers and the like, that I would comment on how well or badly they were aging. I would judge their skin and try to decide whether or not they’ve had work done. It was sort of a game and I did it without thinking. That hair color? Oh no, way too bright and obviously not natural. No one’s skin is that tight at her age. Nope, dressing too young. You get the idea.
Now that I’ve become a woman of a certain age, I find I’m far less critical. I know for a fact how hard it is to fight gravity. Personally, gravity has won and I’m just doing my best to shore body parts up so that I don’t flop around in public. My skin is acting it’s age. It startles me every time I look at the back of my hands and neck. When the hell did this happen? My gray hair elicits different reactions. One is that I’d look younger if I dyed it. Younger than what? The second is that I’m so brave for letting it go natural and did I know that people were paying money to get this color. Brave? Running into a burning building is brave. Coloring your hair gray at thirty seems silly. Just wait a few years and you won’t have to pay for it.
Last year, I turned sixty and it seemed of monumental importance. As this year’s birthday approaches, I’m less concerned about the number of candles and more interested in the kind of cake I’ll get from Weber’s. I’m very fond of lemon, in case anyone is listening. Aging gracefully seems to be a compliment. For those who know me, doing anything gracefully is farfetched. So I’ll aim for aging with joy, pleasure and perhaps peace in my life. Oh, and with a lemon cake, too.