I dreaded my birthday this year. I’ve surpassed the time where I can comfortably lie about my age. I can no longer claim 27 when my oldest son is 25. I can’t even claim 37, since anyone who can do the math would guess I had him when I was 12. This is enough to raise eyebrows, question my virtue, and wonder if the statute of limitations has run out for my ex-husband (who, I must add, has always been considerably older than I.) Besides, I have a younger child who is always happy and willing to point out to anyone within earshot when I’m lying about my age. Unfortunately, I would probably be sending mixed signals if I punished him for telling the truth.
Sigh.
The upside to successfully reaching this milestone year is that I no longer feel the sense of doom I anticipated for almost the entirety of last year. I’ve reached that age, and believe it or not, I do not feel any different than I did before. There are no new aches and pains, no new wrinkles, nothing new sagging, and life has not slowed down one bit. Not only do I have a sense of relief from my fear of becoming old, I also have a brand new appreciation for the years and experiences of my past, along with a clearer view of how those experiences are shaping my present and how they will color my future.
I’m not exactly sure where the psychological shift from fear of aging to acceptance of it came from. It may have been reading one of the many books written for women like me who feared being labeled an older woman. It may have been from admitting that yes, there is something freeing about being part of an invisible generation of people in a youth oriented society. I can worry less about how I look to other people, and concentrate more on how I feel and how I feel about myself. Maybe the change is simply in having the ability and wisdom to see exactly how my past has contributed to the person I am today.
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