Tomorrow I turn 45. When the massage therapist wished me a happy birthday, I told her I had reached middle age. She said she would have punched someone if they told her she was middle-aged. She's older than me. The fact is that age hasn't really mattered to me since I turned 16. Once I hit that magical age and could drive, subsequent birthdays were just numbers.
Honestly, I've never understood why people are so age phobic. Another birthday simply means another year you have lived. People get so wrapped up in wrinkles and thinning hair, like those are the keys to their happiness. The fact is, we rarely look in reality like we think we look in our mind. Good or bad. I can look in the mirror and think I look pretty put together when, in reality, I am walking around with my skirt tucked into my underwear. (Sorry for that mental image.) That might seem like an over-simplistic example, but it's something we all understand.
For most of my life, I have looked younger than I am, and it had always amazed me. However, over the last few years, my age is beginning to show. Blame it on stress, illness and weight loss. Whatever. The lines are showing on my face. There's a sallowness to my skin. But I am alive.
It's apparent that I'm not going to grow old gracefully, and that's ok with me. I'm not politically correct, and I've been known to laugh at inapporpriate places and times. After all, life is about living, not being stuffy and squeezed into someone's box. I've lived A LOT in my 45 years. More than some people ever experience in their whole lives. And I have never fit into anyone's box. That gives me something to laugh about.
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