I Love You Just The Way You Are…
Facing 48 feels a little like a thing. It’s a weird number to feel that way about, but here we are.
I would think that the story I’m about to tell is fairly common for women who lose their mother at a young age. I feel like there is probably a series of some sort that should be written or spoken with regards to the various things you will encounter in your life as a result of losing your mother at a young age.
Maybe someday I will write it. Or speak it. For now, I write for myself to process. And share. And hope that my words land in places sometimes that someone needs to read them.
I never really paid much mind to the aging process until I started to become aware of a few things as I lingered in the morning mirror from time to time.
My mother died at the age of 34. She was vibrant and beautiful and full of life. There was nothing aged about her. Her hair was the most stunning strawberry blonde. Her skin was fair and freckled, and she had gorgeous hands and fingernails which I may not have necessarily recognized then, but given what I do for work, I’m crystal clear on now.
She wasn’t perfect, but she was perfect to me. Her physicality is one of the threads that ties the two of us together. I am physically her, without some of the perks. I have her weight gene, not her hair or nails. I also have her crooked smile. Her face. Her sense of humor. Her belly full of fire when I put my mind to something.
I am so many pieces of her and have been reminded of that my entire life.
But I will age alone. By myself. As myself. With no measure or threshold to give me a glimpse of what’s to come.
Something about that feels a bit daunting. And lonesome.
Recently I had breakfast with a friend. She said to me at one point, “How do you have no wrinkles whatsoever on your face?”. That simple question that appears to be something friends of 30 years would ask of one another, gave me pause.
I’m getting older. And my body and face are starting to show these changes. Physical reminders that I’m still here. That’s what aging is in my opinion. A physical reminder that you’re still here to live your story.
It feels a little weird to be honest. My grandma Aimee is the only physical clue as to what happens to me in the coming years, and I don’t mind telling you, she isn’t necessarily anything I want to turn into physically or otherwise. I don’t mean that with disrespect. She was a morbidly obese, extraordinarily sad and lonely woman at the end of her life. No one in his or her right mind would aspire to chase that.
So what do I become? Where do the lines form? When do the greys move in like a battlefront I can’t push back any longer?
Unlike many, I don’t fight the aging process. I think it’s a beautiful and authentic part of this life, and I look forward to seeing what happens.
It reminds me that I’m still here. Living. And loving. And collecting lines and marks all along the way. It reminds me to stay grateful because she didn’t get the opportunity to experience aging.
To try to alter this journey’s reminders would be a shame as far as I can tell. Aging isn’t something everybody experiences. So I look forward to being surprised by how this old broad ripens up. I can’t imagine that living a whole and authentic life is going to make me any worse for the wear. So bring on the wrinkles!!! As far as I’m concerned, the best is yet to come. Onward…
#bringon48 #wrinklesaresexy #wholelife #agethewayyoureaging #dontchangeathing
