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.