Getting Older– Daunted? Flaunt It!

In honor of my friend Teresa turning 49 today, I’ve decided to re-run an essay of mine that was published in the Dallas Morning News on 10/18/05 under the title, “Crimp’s My Style”.  After it was published in the newspaper and online, I received over 40 letters from across the U.S., all positive and supportive (except two).  The most touching ones were from men, writing to say they wished their wives wouldn’t worry so much about aging and looking older, that they loved them “just the way they are” and would never want to trade them for a younger version.  Enjoy everyone—and Happy Birthday, T!!!!!!!

Recently, I threw a curve ball to a friend of mine who sells skin care and beauty products. As she was touting the anti-aging benefits of a new product (“clinically tested to reduce fine lines by 30 %”) I told her that, to be honest, even though I’m 43, I’m really not interested in hiding my wrinkles. She looked surprised. Who wouldn’t, in this youth-crazed society? I told another friend, who was depressed at turning 44, that she should not only flaunt her crow’s feet, but her gray hairs, too. “Why?” she asked. “Have you gone mad?”

Yes, but in a good way.

I have keenly become more aware of aging recently because my youngest child is now in elementary school—and, due to the roughly two-decade span of women’s child-birthing years, I have discovered that there are moms of kids in her class who are young enough to be my own child!!

As they parade their young bodies at picnics and PTA meetings in hip-hugger jeans and camisole tops, one would think it would make us older moms run, feeling frumpy and intimidated, to the closest plastic surgeon (or beauty consultant) for a complete body reconstruction and makeover.  (According to the boom in popularity of plastic surgery and all things botox, many do.) But why???

Pardon my French, but darnit, I don’t want people to think I’m that young. I may not have walked up a hill backwards in the snow for five miles to get to school, but… I’ve nursed two children for at least 8 months each and if my breasts sag a bit, hooray! That means my children got the healthy start they needed and a great bonding experience was had by all.

Crow’s feet? So what! Those lines near my eyes are from laughing at Red Skelton and Bob Hope, live and in person. From squinting in the Florida sun when Disney World first opened. From crying buckets when my boyfriend broke up with me because I didn’t share his love for the World Football League and the Pat Travers Band. From wearily getting up at 4 a.m. to watch Princess Diana get married on live TV.

My hair’s turning gray? Bring it on! Each gray strand represents a different moment in time. I’ve watched a brother float off to sea with the Navy during the Vietnam War in the 60s, waited in gas lines with my dad during the 70s, danced the “pogo” at college and waded through the trenches of single life in the 80s, and boarded the roller coaster of marriage and kids in the 90s. My parents were part of the Greatest Generation. I know where I was and what I was doing when the first man walked on the moon, when Elvis died, when the Gulf War began. I know what it feels like to have only three channels on a black and white TV, a phone that’s tethered to a base by a cord (horrors!), and fried hair from using a curling iron to look like Farrah Fawcett.

All the wrinkles and bags of old age are badges of honor, I think. Like calling cards that say, “I’m old enough to have lived awhile, to have some experience and wisdom.” What a thing to be proud of! And the older and more wrinkled, the prouder. Older women are not revered in this culture as they are in some others, so we must take it upon ourselves to hold our head high and be in constant inner and outer celebration.

And so, young mothers, when you see the spider veins on my legs that show when I wear shorts, don’t feel sorry for me. Come ask me for advice on potty training and temper tantrums. When you see the acne scars on my face I’ve chosen not to get removed with microdermabrasion, ask me what to do when your eight-year-old still sucks her thumb. Trust me, I won’t be offended.