I am getting old. Yes, I know - you can pooh-pooh the idea as much as you wish, and say I'm a youngster, still youthful and all that, but the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. I have noticed some new "crinkles", as my lovely daughter calls them, around my eyes. At the doctor, I had to ask about a small lump on my arm (that in my head, I had expanded to the size of a watermelon and was sure it was at the very least radioactive). His verdict? It's just something that comes with getting older. He didn't think it was so funny when I asked him for a prescription for this aging disease. He told me to ask a pharmacist. They can write their own scrips now. Nice.
I wander up and down the aisles at Shopper's Drug Mart like a hungry orphan in a bakery. My mouth waters at the descriptions: "anti-aging", "age defying", "youthful look" - all subtle euphemisms for: "If you are looking at me you're getting old".
Anti-aging? Does this mean that it stops the aging process, or is merely against aging in general? Hmmmm.....
Spas and salons (of which Brooklin consists, along with fish and chips store, but I digress, although - I do often see lots of older people in the fish and chips stores quite often, so maybe there IS a connection) do not help to demystify the aging conundrum either. Facials, collagen fillers, botox treatments, masks....it sounds painful, and expensive.
I admit that my go-to response to my own aging process is deny,deny,deny. I dye my hair at the first sign of a peeping grey. I pluck unwanted facial hair like a sniper on a secret mission. I buy bras that help me defy gravity, and pants that cover up the dreaded muffin top. I tuck, cover, slather, change, deny, deny, deny.
But really, what's the point? Am I better off because I try to look like I did when I was twenty? Because I know for a fact that I do NOT want to feel, or be the same person I was when I was twenty. So why do I want to look like her?
Fact is, time marches on. I'm happy, crinkles and all. And I know that one day I'll have more wrinkles than not, my hair with give up the fight with the grey revolution and my boobs will resist being stuffed into a tata tamer from Lululemon in favour of a Playtex comfort bra (hey - at least they'll be somewhere north of the equator!), but I am guessing that I'll still be happy. God willing, I'll have my family and friends by my side, most likely pointing out all my new flaws, and I'll love every second of it.
In the meantime? Deny,deny, DENY!!!
Find your CORE!