When did I start worrying about things age related? Was it the day I turned forty? Forty-five? Just like everything else that didn’t happen a minute ago, I can’t remember.
For the longest time I be-bopped along styling my hair however I wished, dressing in whatever fashion suited me. If I spied a cute top in the junior section at Penney’s I bought it. These days if I fall in love with a top in the junior section it is either on its way to the dressing room with one of my daughters or I’m on the wrong side of the store.
When did that happen? It snuck up on me with the same insidiousness as my muffin-top. It feels as though my 20-year-old self went to sleep one night and woke up decades later in the body of Rip Van Winkle.
My mom told me once that whenever she saw her image reflected anywhere her first thought was, “Who is that old broad?”
Not very eloquent, but right to the point.
So who is this old broad who is me? When did I become this old broad? And why does the idea of dressing “too young” or wearing my hair “too young” bother me? It goes beyond not wanting to look like an idiot. I think it has to do with my admiration for women who make the transition from Youth to Old Baggerdom gracefully. That’s what I want to do. I want to transition well into my old bagger days. I want to appreciate my wrinkles, even as I try to abolish them with expensive night creams.
So I haven’t answered my initial question, which was: When did I start worrying about this stuff? You know, I don’t think there was a start date, but here I am anyway. Maybe the secret is to quit asking and just roll with it.
I’ll give that a try, just not in the junior department.
Rolling along –