A Real Woman Doesn’t Lie About Her Age – 5:00 Fridays

It’s funny that people get gifts on their birthday. Aging in and of itself is a gift. Aging means time accrued in this dear sweet life. The only one we get. Aging is not only celebrating another year down, but it’s a marvelous opportunity to carry on. It should be noted, however, that growing old and growing up are mutually exclusive.

Aging gracefully seems to be out of style. Why should I feel less attractive because I’m in my 40s? Why should I succumb to societal pressure to be young and fresh while a graying temple on a man is sexy and distinguished? Why should I turn back time when there’s still much to see ahead? I am astounded when I meet women in their 20s and 30s who have already had this or that tucked and tightened or enhanced and stretched. Botox. Plastic surgery. Microdermabrasion (whatever it is…sounds terribly uncomfortable to me). Brow lift. Lip plump. I hear of retinols and acids and antioxidants. I get several Groupons a week inviting me to try this or that pit wax or lip enhancement or medical facial. Delete. Delete. Delete.

It’s not that I’m judging. Really, I’m not. But at the same time, I don’t believe aging needs an antidote. A wrinkle is the calling card of a million forgotten smiles.

Part of me is too chicken to try these remedies. What if something goes wrong? I am a compulsive worrier. It’s a terrible paradox because all that worrying is indeed what should be driving me to the next spa to erase these lines. If you look under my locks you will see that I am leaning towards more gray than not. I might dye my hair. I’ve toyed with it. Oh, let’s be honest. I’m totally going to dye my hair. But I’m not comfortable getting poison shot into my brow or being nipped and tucked under anesthesia. I don’t want acid scrubbed on my cheeks. Hell, I don’t even like blush dabbed on my cheeks.

And don’t be mistaken, this is not a case of uber confidence and being happy in my own (wrinkled) skin. That fo sho ain’t true. I have loads of trouble spots and back fat that won’t go away. The dark circles under my eyes look like I rested spoons of dark chocolate under my lower lashes. My teeth are crooked and bear the telltale stains of a life filled with coffee and red wine. I lack chiseled abs, and my triceps wobble in a gusty wind. I have yet to find a pair of jeans or a bathing suit I truly feel good in; instead I settle for passable. I fret but certainly don’t lose any sleep over these body image issues that all women face. I don’t embrace the sagging and damage that gravity has wreaked but I don’t embrace resorting to a Keeping up with the Kardashians regimen either.

I am getting older. My body still cooperates. I am strong and healthy and able. I can still run with my sons and do a cartwheel in the grass. I don’t have aches and pains, and nothing creaks yet. There is still a sparkle in my eye and a skip in my step. I am aging. I am betwixt a life lived and life to go on. I still have great promise to live up to. Aging is a wondrous thing. It is a gift to celebrate another year on this planet.

And I shall do just that. I shan’t take it for granted. Tomorrow I will be 43 years old.

 

A Real Woman Doesn’t Lie About Her Age

1 shot Rain Organic Lavender Lemonade vodka

3-5 ounces Prosecco

Pour vodka into a tall champagne glass (not the kind in the shape of the bath tub at a Poconos honeymoon suite). Top with Prosecco. No garnish needed. We’re embracing the unadorned tonight. Cheers!