Oh I know I don’t look like I’m 51 years old. Because somehow the beauty is supposed to have faded by now. We recede into the cracks at the menopausal age, no longer prized for our beauty, not yet wise enough to be called such. Or is that just the crap I remember being terrified of when I was in my 20’s considering the aging process?
The good news is, my genetics are such that I’ll always look younger than I am and I’ll outlive everybody. But the mental shift which is suggested I embrace, from valuing my outsides to considering the alternative value of my insides is just as good, well that’s rubbing me the wrong way just for today.
My hair began falling out in clumps when I had Fiona. The hormone levels that I needed to carry her but no longer had, plummeted and I was already 46 so who needs hair. My metabolism slowed down and I began to fear my every ache as something cataclysmic. So, as I’m battling those aches and pains with everything I’ve got, I’ve felt the gooeyness that is the slowing metabolism and loss of collagen. It completely freaks me out to feel my skin rolling over and touching itself under my bra. Not cool.
I am energetic, young at heart, and enthusiastic about grabbing all the goodness and gratitude out of my life that I can before I pass on. But I refuse to act graceful as I continue to age. If I want to rage against the fading of my beauty or my strength or stamina after a while, that is mine to have a fit about. And I will think no less of you if I catch you muttering ungraciously about your aging under your breath too. That being said, I really had a ridiculously fun and celebratory month so far. I planned all sorts of dates with my family and friends all culminating in a crab feast this weekend. My life’s pretty grand. Perhaps I’ll don my tiara for our crab feast too.
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