I’m not complaining. Okay, yes I am. Listen, I know how blessed I am to be alive and I appreciate the fact that no matter how bad things are — they can always be a lot worse.
That being said, I have to confess that getting older is a lot harder than I expected. Maybe that’s because I wasn’t quite sure what to expect in the first place.
When I turned thirty — I was fully committed to using the decade ahead as the launching pad for my non-existent career as well as fulfilling the obligations of being a wife and mother. At least that’s what I thought I needed to do.
There was always the panic button right beside me — giving the five minute alerts that signaled time was fast becoming my enemy.
Once my late thirties came into view, I waved the white flag and surrendered. I had no choice but to accept the things I couldn’t change.
But you still hold out hope that perhaps age really is just a number and not the best way to define who your are or what you’re capable of.
That all disappears once you hit forty. I reached that milestone a couple of years ago and if my mind was slow to process — my body gladly took the initiative to brutally welcome me to the decade of “What the Fuck?”
What the fuck is happening to my hair? Why am I literally all gray? Is this supposed to be happening now?! I didn’t get the memo that turning forty meant a swift and painful goodbye to my black healthy mane and hello to coarse melanin deficient tresses.
What the fuck is happening to my body? Everything used to work like clock work and now I have to keep a mental journal of what is working and what isn’t. The very things I used to bitch about have given me cause to beg God not to take them away so soon!
What the fuck will happen to me if I live past fifty? Being a single gray-haired forty-two year old with hormonal issues has given me the gift of foresight.
I am now wise beyond my years — I can see the future and I’m scared shitless.
I have constantly battled with the ability to greet each day with renewed hope and fortitude. I pump myself up every morning as I walk to my various modes of transportation.
But those private pep talks aren’t working as well as they used to. You run out of things to say and your source of inspiration begins to dim with the passage of time.
What the fuck? How did I go from being a bubbly twenty-four year old to a confused and paranoid forty-something who looks good for her age but not for long.
Yes, I’m vain. My face has changed. My features have hardened and my lips don’t pucker with youthful allure. And what the fuck is happening to my boobs? I wasn’t gifted with a generous bosom which never limited my ability to feel sexual — until now.
Every so often — due to circumstances beyond my control — there is a period of shrinkage that freaks me out. I stand in front of the mirror and wonder — what the fuck?
Who is the person and how the hell am I supposed to accept her when I liked the previous version so much better.
None of us have time to spare. It may seem like we do since we function under the sweet illusion that life is simply what we make it.
Many of you spend hundreds even thousands of dollars to have life gurus deliver the words you want to hear.
I’m no life guru and I certainly don’t have all the answers — but what I can tell you is that getting up there in age is a humbling experience.
It forces the hidden pangs of fright to shoot up without warning. There is nowhere to run or hide. Your desperate attempt to mask your vulnerability remains — desperate.
All you want to do is believe that despite the warning signs — you will not shrivel up and die alone. The more you convince yourself that won’t be the case — the less inclined you are to believe it.
At this moment — I’m open to anything that will awaken my soul in ways that keep my frenetic heart beat at a reasonable pace.
What the fuck do I have to do to make getting older not seem like lashings of betrayal on my wearied back?
What the fuck can I do to ease my aching knees and keep my ovaries operating at the right frequency so my dream of having a child doesn’t evaporate before my clouded eyes?
What the fuck will it take to convince the right guy to peep me at the right time — just when I thought it would never happen.
That pleasant unexpected connection that reassures me that life can be a gorgeous surprise.
Why the fuck is getting older not as much fun as I thought it would be? And why do I see older people as lepers and run for the hills because they represent the beginning of my frazzled future?
I guess as long as I keep wondering “What the fuck?” — I will remain in cushioned limbo.
Shit. Maybe I do need a life coach…