On Growing Old

I love that phrase “growing old”. It’s positive. It implies that it’s an improvement. “Getting old” sounds like a disease or something you aquire from standing in dirty pond water. “Becoming old” seems as though it happened by accident.

Growing old is something I look forward to, even as it happens now. I’m not really OLD old, except to 20 year olds. I’m 45. Halfway to the finish line, give or take. It’s starting to show and I am ok with that.

Even in a culture that worships youth, that implies all women should immediately run out and get things tucked and lifted and enhanced, I am fine with the saggy things and the kinda droopy bits and stuff going grey. I worked for it. I EARNED this grey hair. The saggish things are the result of bearing 4 children, and I’m not scared of it. For pete’s sake, it’s not like I’m devastated because I can’t be a Victoria’s Secret model!

I’ve learned alot since I was 20 and thought I knew everything. The main thing I’ve learned is that I don’t know everything. I am amused to watch my kids, in their late teens/early 20’s act the way I did…like they know everything. Because I was 20 once, I can see it for what it is, and be amused instead of pissed off. Well, most of the time anyway.

Anyway, I love the growing old. I quit coloring my hair about 2 years ago and it’s all grown out and about 1/4 silvery grey. I love that. I am NOT interested in covering it with Clairol 7-1/2B. I am amused and enchanted by the crows feet around my eyes. Ok the bingo wings aren’t so amusing but I am convinced if I were to become motivated enough I could do something about them. But the rest of it? The pooch on my stomach that used to hold babies, the rough looking hands and scars and all that life-inflicted stuff? I like it.

I like looking at my friends, wo are going through the same age issues, have similar wrinkles and grey and saggy things, and who also laugh at the Look 20 mandate. I look forward to being an old lady.

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About rootietoot

I do what I can.
This entry was posted in Dewicate feewings, Sometimes she thinks too much. Bookmark the permalink.

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