Aging is a slow dance with a beautiful man whose name is death, but he goes by Bill so that you won’t know it’s him. It is not a lie that youth is wasted on the young. Few of the young realize the opportunities that youth allows them.
When I turned 40, I handled it better than I thought I would. I still felt the same way as I did at 39 and I still thought much the same way as I did at 13. “What’s the big deal,” I thought to myself.
In my journey to age 41, I did make note of sudden changes that appeared as I got older. When I turned 32, I started lowering the volume on my car radio.
When 35 hit, I woke up loving gardening and flowered artwork.
At forty, I suddenly went nuts for Christmas decor and started collecting Christmas ornaments. I got embarrassingly much too excited about a new vacuum cleaner.
Then I turned 41. I guess my freak out mode was delayed a year because 41 is when I really freaked out. I felt like I woke up suddenly a decade older. The only things missing were me suddenly loving cat sweaters and cross stitching rainbows. I was sure that was coming along shortly.
Shortly after my forty first birthday, things started to change. Suddenly, an evening with friends that included a few drinks took three days to recover from.
I started carrying Advil in the car in addition to having it at home. The weather became an awesome topic of conversation and I ran into at least three people I knew every time I went to the pharmacy.
I had to fight myself into not buying a cat sweater. I canceled three appointments that I made for a permanent and a set and Piccadilly at 4:30 seemed the perfect locale for dinner instead of resembling a formaldehyde smelling funeral home.
I looked at my wrinkles, sagging body, and gray hairs that appeared overnight while trying to think about the good parts of aging. I knew there had to be some.
I definitely am a lot more mature and responsible than I was 12 years ago, although I’m still decades behind my peers in that respect. No one loves pranks and 12-year-old humor more than I do. I also impulse buy a lot.
I still get hit on plenty, but that’s really not saying much because some of these men would hit on a dead toad if they thought it would put out. And it’s usually at the gas station or over Messenger.
Recently, I looked at some pictures of Jennifer Aniston, and women like her in their fifties, who claim not to ever have had cosmetic surgery done. They look like they’re 19 instead of 50. I bet they don’t even own a housedress.
I call bullshit. Either they are lying or they’re buying $12,000 skin cream made from some secret ingredient that only they know about such as endangered eagle jizz or something similar.
Anyway, my exterior might be aging a bit, but my internal self is still young and vibrant. I love to have fun, be social, and be with friends and family. And mess with people and stir up trouble.
I both dread and look forward to what 45 holds in store for me. As I age, my brain, beliefs, and morals get better, but my body is slowly falling apart.
Like a fine wine, I’m getting better with age, but only on the inside. But I’ll grow old fighting it every step of the way.