There’s no sense in denying it, so I’ll just say it. I’m getting older. And I’m taken off guard to discover that it’s harder to watch time march across the body than I could have ever imagined. So much harder. Anyone else?

I’m not sure when it happened but one day, a random day within the last few years, I noticed. Thinking my eyes had deceived me, I lifted my body onto the balls of my feet and leaned forward, balancing my core against the edge of the bathroom counter. Under the glare of the unforgiving lights, I saw the faintest of lines. Not yet deep, not having taken up permanent residence, but definitely making their presence known. And I realized with sobering, shocking, sudden clarity that it had begun. Aging had set in.

In magazines, celebrities are often interviewed about their perspective on aging. I always appreciate the ones who say they will take aging as it comes with grace, making no attempts to reverse what is destined to occur. If a girl whose very income is based on the sheen of dewy skin and the expanse of a wrinkle-free face can age gracefully, then I’d like to assume that I can too.

Yet, I am puzzled that it bothers me. When I was young, the years were etched in the memories I put to mental storage, but now the years are etching into my body. What a crazy notion that is.

It’s not for lack of wisdom that I feel this way. My nearly four decades have taught me that the curve of a belly which once housed the growing forms I now call daughters is a gift one could never earn. That the tiny slivers taking up residence on the far corners of my eye, and that wispy  skin underneath are a privilege. The closet filled with clothing in every size known to man tell the story of a girl who has eaten more than her fill, sometimes in places other than her homeland, because she is blessed far beyond what she deserves. Every scar is accompanied by a tale, and each area proudly speaks to 37 years lived. If my God knows the number of my days, I cannot complain about the expression on the body He crafted for me of those 13,505 days, so far.

So what if we aged with excitement and appreciation, rather than regret or disappointment? How different would it feel to look in the mirror and search for the next wrinkle with glee, knowing that it was born of a smile that gave way to a belly laugh? How freeing it would be to shop for an outfit that skimmed the outline of the same body that could bear down in pain, cradle tiny limbs, nestle into the chest of a beloved and trace a line of steps from home to another continent in exploration? What if there was celebration instead of lament, and honor instead of disdain?

My husband’s grandmother is a proud 93 years old and she once told me that her body has aged far quicker than her mind. What she speaks is true. Those 93 years have only served to make her sharp as a tack, even as her body breaks down, though not at the rate you’d expect. There’s no question that we all process through these seasons with wonder and some hesitation.

But isn’t that a gift all by itself? The gift of presence and of awareness.  To know, to contemplate, to wallow, to weep, to wrestle it all to the ground and make peace. What a precious, breathtaking gift.

Still kicking,
Mande