Forever Young Was Never an Option but I Finally See Life from Both Sides Now

It's a long and winding road to self-acceptance.

Photo by TIORHISTA R: https://www.pexels.com/

An article last week by fellow Substacker,

Kim Foster

titled "Aging (dis)gracefully," got me thinking about the whole Pamela Anderson/Demi Moore contrast at the Met Gala. One shows up bare-faced and gets called "frumpy," while the other arrives with immaculate makeup, in a sexy gown, looking twenty years younger, and gets celebrated.

It made me wonder: What exactly does it mean when people say you "look good for your age"? What is this age supposed to look like? It is as if there is a "Department of Aging" that has a standardized chart of acceptable deterioration rates.

Like it or not, we're all headed in the same direction.

I've watched it happen to everyone else, yet I wasn't ready for it to happen to me. In an illogical, navel-gazey way, I considered myself the exception to the rule. I'm so damn special, I’m never getting old! When my mother warned me I'd "get there someday," I ignored the distasteful thought.

We think we'll live forever when we're young. We act as if there’s no tomorrow and that our bodies will be the special ones that defy the universal laws of physics. Because of our limited perspective, we don't understand that the destiny of all the people on the road ahead of us is ours, too.

It's adorable, really, this delusion.

FACE: "The First Cut is the Deepest," Sheryl Crow

For many decades, I didn't think about my body, especially my skin, except how oily it was, a breeding ground for pimples, which I did my best to obliterate with the single-minded determination of a Twitter mob canceling someone for a decade-old tweet.

In my 40s, I finally acknowledged that my largest organ had been grossly neglected and started using pricey skin care products. Crimey—I didn't even know my skin was an organ for the longest time! But said organ was drying up, and I was still having breakouts—a new quandary that seemed as solvable as Middle East peace.

Anti-aging products were coming into their own, and I bought enough of them to fund several cosmetic executives' vacation homes single-handedly. Despite my investment, I have developed the jowls of my late father. My once-rosy pre-jowl cheeks used to be so plump they had minds of their own – powerful enough to forcefully press dial buttons on old landline phones. My cheeks would play a tune (beep, boop, bop) with every facial expression. They became even more powerful with my cell phone, ending calls mid-conversation as if they'd decided the discussion wasn't interesting enough to continue.

It usually wasn't.

Gravity has redistributed things on my face like a vindictive furniture mover, pulling the plump parts down to my disappearing jawline. I've considered taking out a line of credit to pay a dermatologist to inject some filler, but then I realized it's like putting my finger in a dike. You fix one thing, and something else crops up. My friend has a perfectly young face from facelifts and fillers, but her body tells a different story—it's like wearing a designer blouse with sweatpants.

Who are you really fooling?

My solution is to smile more. My resting bitch face was getting old anyway, so smiling all the time yanks up the loose skin and floating cheek debris. BONUS: Smiling gives the facial muscles a workout, too! #winning

Body language experts say fake smiling makes people less likely to trust you, but that's okay with me. I'm old and don't look my age (so I've been told), which means I can fool you in other ways, too.

LEGS: “Shake, Rattle, and Roll,” Bill Haley and His Comets

The skin on the tops of my legs has become loose-fitting, like a pair of leggings that've been through the wash cycle too many times. The front of my thighs looks lumpy. I remember the first time I saw an older woman with cottage cheese legs at the gym. I became fixated on her willingness to showcase her curds in her short shorts while also fretting about what my legs would look like when I reached her age. While I was tsk-tsking gym lady, I didn't know that my legs were silently beginning their gelatinous slide. My legs look like gym lady's now, and there's not a damn thing anybody can do about it. I wear shorts and bathing suits, allowing everyone a view.

Have you seen the people on the beach lately? No one cares, and neither do I.

ARMS: “Hanging by a Moment,” Lifehouse

As if my face and legs weren't enough, I saw myself in a sleeveless shirt the other day in the mirror. To my horror, the skin from my shoulder to my elbow gathered like a muffin top at my elbow joint. What is this?

Gravity is laughing at me. Even my earlobes have wrinkles running through the middle as if even the smallest parts of me needed to join in on the joke.

NECK: “Protect Ya Neck,” Wu-Tang Clan

My neck has transformed from my co-conspirator to a mortal enemy. It is no longer willing to keep any secrets. A friend once warned me not to forget my neck when applying sunscreen. I thought it odd for her to say it because I'd never given my neck a second thought. My face was always the protagonist in my story, with my neck in a shadowy supporting role. My neck, in retribution, now tells the true story about not only the lack of sun protection but also the hard truths about the divorce, the turmoil with elderly parents, and the constant worry about my kids. My neck is all in its revenge, exposing my secrets and telegraphing them like some biological Morse code of my life's hardships. If you wonder why old ladies wear turtlenecks in the summer, now you know at least one of the possible reasons.

BLADDER: “Urgent,” Foreigner

We've talked a lot about the aging of the external, but what about what's on the inside? Like my neck, I've never thought twice about my bladder unless I was pregnant with an 8-lb baby sitting on it. Generally, I don't think about my insides all too much. My bladder wants to settle the score for taking it for granted by becoming the center of my day. It shouts the loudest in the morning, so much so that I avoid scheduling anything unless I know I will have access to a bathroom. The proximity of a clean bathroom determines which events I will attend, like some deranged scavenger hunt.

Port-a-Johns don't count and will only suffice in extreme emergencies. If you want to play outdoor pickleball in the morning, the presence of a Port-a-John is not an acceptable alternative to a bathroom with a toilet and sink. I'm sorry, but I don't like pickleball enough to forego these basics. Bathrooms matter.

I'm sure other parts of my innards will soon announce their displeasure. The meat sack will have the final word.

MIND: “Clocks” Coldplay

Here's what they don't tell you in all those TV commercials with their false promises of eternal youth: aging shifts your perspective beyond the physical in ways that are actually worth something. I've spent decades worrying about things that never happened while being blindsided by the things that did. So much wasted time fretting over imaginary disasters! If I could go back and retrieve all those hours of needless anxiety, I'd have enough time to learn Mandarin and master the ukulele.

What I know now is that everything—everything—passes. The terrible times when you feel like the world is ending? They pass. The glorious moments when everything is perfect? They pass too. Everything being temporary sounds depressing until you realize it's liberating.

Nothing lasts forever, which means we get second chances and fresh starts. It also means we should pay more attention to the good stuff while it's happening.

I've come to accept things I once would have fought against—like the directions my children take. Instead of trying to change their minds, I've learned to witness their journeys rather than be the director. They deserve the same freedom of choice I had (even the freedom to make the same stupid mistakes). I'm just lucky to know them and have a place in their lives.

So yes, my body is sagging and bagging in ways that sometimes shock me when I catch my reflection unexpectedly. But the trade-off? A mind that finally understands what matters—and what doesn't.

If you made it to the bottom, I commend you! Just between you and me, I have a confession to make. Last week I wrote about singing and tagged my music teacher in the newsletter. That was one of the dumbest things I’ve done. Chris read it and then made me watch a video of myself singing a few months back so that he could convince me how much I improved. Gah—that was painful, and I won’t be tagging him in any more newsletters. I will definitely be writing more about my singing journey since it’s so rich with bloopers and humble realizations. Stay tuned!