Age was never a big deal to me.
Although I clung far too long to the childlike habit of counting time from birthday to big holiday and back again, I didn’t fret over turning 25, never blinked at 30 and was far too busy being a mother and journalist to notice much about 40.
Lately, however, reminders of my advancing age seem to be everywhere.
I’ll keep a lid on the TMI, but suffice it to say there are a few more gray hairs (snow-white, really) each morning, the laugh lines are less and less funny, and more nights than I care to admit, the TV is watching me at 8:30 pm. (And then after I haul myself to bed, I watch the ceiling for awhile. But that’s a topic for another post.)
There are other signs as well. Starting with this blog, which is offering “Social Security” as a suggested tag.
When I turned 40, an AARP card came in the mail. Basil is a decade older than me and the folks at AARP had tracked him down within a whisper of turning 50. Being a spouse of someone headed over the hill had its privileges. Needless to say, Basil was a little hurt when I refused to tuck the card in my wallet.
When I went for my Jazzercise certification in May, I was the elder stateswoman, a role I wore with relish. It felt good to achieve success with some younger ladies. I was still hot stuff. Even if I needed I nap when I got home!
In June, a neighbor who I guess is in her 30s let drop that Basil and I remind her of her parents. What to say? Thank … you?!
In July, as the credits rolled on the “Burlesque” DVD, my 15-year-old daughter, Catherine, turned to me and said Cher looked to be about my age. WHAT?!
In no time I was patiently explaining that when I was Catherine’s age, Cher was married, with a child, and I was tuning in to her TV show every week before my bedtime.
An email that arrived earlier this week may be the icing on the cake, however: LeMetric Hair Center wants to know if aging is driving me crazy. (So THAT’S why … no, I digress.) The ad goes on to offer hair, makeup and cellulite tips, then invites me to a Manhattan event to “Spend a fun time with other great women of our FabOverFifty generation.”
As the kids say:
For the record, I’m not yet part of the Over 50 club. I have a few more years to go.
And I’m not going to think about it. It’s just a number (and I hate numbers).
I may be older, but I’m wiser and better. And still hot stuff.
Actually, Terri, I’d be more concerned about looking like Cher now, whatever her age or yours. She’s unfortunately one of those women who’s had so much plastic surgery she’s joined the ranks of what I call the “Pod women.” Their faces are so immobile they look as if they’ve been hatched from an alien pod.
I was the senior person when I worked theatre. Actoids would come in and tell me it was their mother’s birthday — and they couldn’t believe she was so old. Invariably it was a number way below my age. Sure helped my ego –NOT!