On my first day back at the gym in 2016, I sneezed, coughed and wet my pants simultaneously. This occurred on the elliptical, midway through my workout. While I would love to blame the rigors of exercising and banish it to hellfire, I realize this could have happened in the produce department at Fred Meyer, waiting in the pickup line at school or even sleeping. Damn my post childbearing forty-seven year old bladder and the ship it came in on!
The aging process is a bitch. My skin seems to have formed an allergy to my bones and is pulling away at an alarming rate. While I’m not a wrinkly mess, yet, I have developed freckles (age spots) on my hands. Skin tags, a.k.a., gnarly bits of extra epidermis, are sprouting up all over my neck. My moles are multiplying and if left unattended, I could grow a mustache that would make Tom Selleck green with envy. Don’t get me started on the bat wings. My only consolation is that my eye sight is going and my bifocals have already been bumped up twice. So if I don’t look too closely I can trick myself into thinking things aren’t as bad as they really are.
Now that you know what I loathe about my advancing years, let me share what I love. I love myself. Not the train wreck amount but the juicy bits of my soul. I love that I’m able to appreciate the small things in life; a crocus popping its head through the grass, the perfect French fry, no lines at the gas pump. I love that I’m a dreamer with a highly developed sense of potty humor. I love what the experience of forty-seven years has molded me into. I am damn cool without all the trappings of “coolness.” I have finally arrived.
I no longer care what other people think about me. I don’t keep up with the Joneses or the Kardashians. I drive an old car because I have better things to do with my money than buy new transportation. I wear yoga pants because they’re comfy and my waistline has thickened a bit. I only own sensible shoes and rarely put on any makeup other than lipstick. I color my own hair and my manicure is atrocious.
Forty-seven years on the planet has taught me a lot about the kind of person I want to be and what things will play a beneficial role in creating that person. Would I like to be thinner, sexier and more continent? Hell, yeah. Will it make me a better person? Hell, no.
I tell you this in case you are caught up on the hamster wheel of false ideology; your car, your shoes, your clothes, your bank account, your address, the perkiness of your boobs. None of these make you a better person. What does make you a better person is how you treat others, your ability to laugh at yourself and the good you do. I promise, if you change your priorities, the amount of joy in your life will grow exponentially.