There was a shock on the face of my date the other night when I told him how old I was. It’s not something I usually bring up in conversation, but he made the wrong assumption and I wanted to correct him; after I thanked him profusely for saying I was 8 years younger than I truly was.
I told him it was a grand compliment and he can continue to think I’m 50 all he wants. However, I also told him that I was very proud of my age.
I’ve earned my wrinkles. I’ve earned my scars. I’ve earned my gray hair. I’ve also earned what I need to purchase my box of hair color to hide all that gray – I mean, come on…
But it also made me think… I guess I do have this love/hate relationship with aging. I know I have written how content I am in my life and my age right now. And, I am. But, my age is starting to show. While I have lost weight my skin is not bouncing back as I’d like. I’m a lot more wiggly even being a lot less heavy.
I look in the mirror and I don’t see a 58 year old. Maybe 45? Yeah, I’m being very kind with myself. But we never really feel our age, why should we believe we look our age too?
Either way, I’m rather proud that people believe I’m younger than I am. No, I don’t believe I’m a “work of art,” but I’m proud that people believe I’ve aged well. All I know is, I’m no accident. I worked hard for everything I am at this moment. And, I am indeed proud…and content.
Perhaps, as David Bowie said, through this process this is the person I was always meant to be.
Carmen Garcia writes about stuff… life as a single mother, dating, weight loss, performing, and other random experiences. Sometimes it makes sense. Other times, not so much. You decide.