Story of an Aging Woman--Told by an Aging Woman

“Say it isn’t so,” I think as I examine myself in the mirror.  And yet, no matter how hard I wish it weren’t true, it is.  It is, indeed, another gray hair.  They’ve been popping up like weeds in fertilizer lately.   For as much as I loved being a raven-haired beauty for the first thirty plus years of my life, I curse it now.  Of course, I couldn’t be granted the unique silver streaks that tell of aging gracefully.  I have the misfortune of stark white coming in non-uniform clumps throughout my head.  My natural hair part acts like a bulls-eye, and in case you don’t notice that, it also frames my face at the cusp of my hairline, making ignoring it completely impossible. 

This reality check makes me study my face for other tell-tale signs of age.  There are plenty.  Not just my face, but I’ll get to those later.  My eyes are sinking back into my skull creating an eyelid overhang that would perplex the finest architects contemplating a canter-lever design.  Some would say this is a minor contribution to the decline of my face, but if you ever tried putting contacts in and can’t grab a hold of your top lid to hold your eye open, you would understand what a conundrum this issue causes.  That and the fact that I can no longer style my eyes in the latest make-up trends, just has me plain old pissed. 

Then there are my “laugh lines”.  Whoever coined that term should be shot.  There is nothing funny about them.  Supposedly they appear where the natural smile is and having them is a badge of honor, of sorts.  It means you had an easy life and laughed a lot.  I call bullshit.  Sure, I laughed a lot, but if I would’ve known the price, perhaps I should have been more of a scowling bitch.  These mirrored lines form a crease between my nose and my lips wide and deep enough to be granted its own zip code.  If that isn’t enough, they have their own tributaries onto my lips themselves.  My lipstick now settles in these fine lines making the divots more defined on my already thin lips.  Putting lipstick on at all is now a crap shoot.  I try to apply a heavier coat hoping it will act like collagen.  All I succeed in doing is walking an imaginary fine line between aging whore and circus clown.  And getting it unknowingly on my teeth. 

Unwanted hair removal in itself is now a full-time job.   Between plucking, bleaching, and waxing, I deserve a damn paycheck.  To be honest, it’s a losing battle.  Sometimes I just give up, turn the mirror off of magnify, and hope for the best.  That’s just the hair you can see.  Around the middle of July, I begin the countdown to No-Shave November and argue with my husband that it’s the same as growing a beard.  I’m laying the ground work for warm legs come winter. 

Weird things are happening to my skin, too.  Dark brown spots appear overnight on my arms and hands, called “liver spots” of all things.  Can you think of an uglier word?  I can’t.  I don’t know why this happens.  Probably just to bring attention to my dry, thin-skinned hands and fingers to emphasize the appearance of the blue veins that now rise above my crooked knuckles.  Or perhaps the same reason I have random black and blues all over my body—just lucky, I guess.  Funny, I don’t remember being hit by a truck.  Then there is the “hail damage”—cellulite.  It’s the devil’s work, no doubt.

Oh, let’s not forget about my figure.  My measurements used to be flawless proportions—my bust and hips matching digits, with my waist being a perfect ten inches smaller.  Now my sagging bust line blends right into my waist, with my ass ten inches bigger still.   I am officially unable to shed the pounds I put on after giving birth to my two children—15 years ago.  Apparently, there is an expiration date attached to the ability to drop the weight.  In the fine print it should read, “Best results if lost by the age of 40.  We can no longer guarantee a successful outcome past this date.” 

My style has changed as well.  I now choose practical styles and colors when shopping for myself to avoid standing out.  It’s more out of fear that I’m unable to keep up with the changing trends.  About the time I am aware of a style, can afford it, and actually get out to shop for it, it has passed.  An example being, I wore jelly shoes the other day.   That is half a joke.  Truth be told, not all of the trends are able to be converted into my age group.  The flowered headbands that were once in style just a few short months ago looked totally adorable (“totes adorbs” in young-speak) if you were 25 or less in age.  Any older than that it looks like you forgot to comb your hair after gardening.  The mini-skirts I used to wear with pride showing off my shapely legs, now look vulgar on my aging body with elephant knees and purple spattering of busted blood vessels.  I still wear heels though.  A girl has got to stick to her guns on that one!

Sadly, the changes aren’t just physical either.  I turn down the radio when my kids are blasting today’s take on music.  I watch the news religiously.  I can barely hold a conversation without losing my train of thought.  I fall asleep at 9 pm, only to wake three hours later and remember all of the things I forgot to do, finally able to fall back to sleep roughly 15 minutes before my alarm goes off.  I cannot keep up with technology…nor do I want to.  I seek out the emergency exits in public spaces.  I no longer understand casual sex or recreational drug use.  I’m annoyed with conversations I overhear that start with “Oh my Gawd….”  And I marvel at the fact that young people can go through a whole day without napping. 

The change in outlook is precipitated by the knowledge that this is now my life.  I am halfway to death and there are still dreams and plans left unrealized.  And the realism is, like it or not, they are probably going to remain that way at this point.  It’s like the train of life derailed a few years back in the small town of Loserville.  When I got off, the conductor said, “Hope you packed your shit, cause you’re staying awhile.”  This statement is reinforced by my 17 year old pointing out to me that you are old for much longer than you are young. 

Nowadays, when my best friend and I get together, we damn the young and recall a time when we didn’t know any better as well.  Ten years ago, we used to make promises to each other that “We’ll never get old,” when we saw someone with a convenient haircut and sensible shoes.  We would roll our eyes when someone would relay their extensive list of dietary restrictions before placing their order at the restaurant we worked in.  We would look and laugh when we saw someone using a calculator to determine the proper tip amount on a $30 tab.  We would giggle, naïvely thinking we had a choice in the matter.  Today, we spend hours pointing out to each other the latest discoveries we no longer have control over.  We compare our aches and pains and share newly diagnosed deadly diseases that could be causing them.  We tell stories of the foolish youth we work with and complain at their lack of substance.  We sit in silence when we ask each other what exciting things have we been up to lately.  But mostly, we bitch that men age so much better than we do; acknowledging except for the baldness, men have it so much easier.  Truth or not, we would countlessly list man after man who look more distinguished with their patches of gray, or how the lines around their eyes just makes them twinkle more.  We conveniently chose men like Sean Connery, George Clooney, and other famous example.  Perhaps that is our way of allowing ourselves to wallow more.  After finishing our drinks that we have to pay for ourselves, we return home, internally grateful it’s before 9:00 pm on a work night. 

No matter how immune you think you are to aging while you are in your twenties, even your thirties, the reality will hit you hard in your forties.  Like it or not.  My advice is to prepare as best you can now.  Maybe it won’t be so jarring.  Save the money you spend dying your hair now—you will really need it someday.   Pay attention to the fiber commercials—irregularity really is a thing.  Wear pretty clothes now—sweatpants look good at any age.  And most importantly--dance while you can.  A grown-ass woman pushing 50 on the dance floor getting “low” to Flo-rid-a is just sad.  I jest—none of this advice is going to help —it’s still going to suck donkey balls.

It’s not all bad though.  Age has afforded me the opportunity to release my opinion on others.  I don’t give it in a nonchalant, rude demeanor meant to destroy the recipient—that’s just cruel.  But I do believe there is something to be gained from my life experiences.  The freeing part being is I don’t give a rat’s ass whether they take it or not.  I am able to carry on with my day and my life, letting them fend for themselves and figure life out the hard way, as I had to do.  I also don’t have the annoying practice of having to dig my ID out every time I want alcohol.  Uttering “sucker” under my breath at the liquor store when I see a youthful 24 year old digging through her wallet trying to remember if she left her license in her friend’s clutch after the bar last night, makes this issue quite entertaining.  Mine is safely tucked away in my duffel style purse along with all of the other items I may never need but carry with me everywhere just in case.  You probably find yourself laughing at this.  Perhaps you’ll think of me the next time you need a tissue or lose a button. 

I trust you’ll take my story as a humorous account told from my perspective.  I hope someday when you are older you remember this and laugh a little (not too hard though—we don’t want those laugh lines or bladder leakage.  Yes, it happens.).  And please forgive me if I ever offer you a hard candy from the bottom of my purse.  It can’t be helped.