The shriveling. That's what I'm ruminating about today. Two days before I have the luxury of turning forty-five, while my exquisite friend Bari just passed away at forty-five, I'm focusing on the shriveling of my belly and what sometimes feels like the shriveling of my being. My body which holds too-many-to-count-can't-
recall-how-I-even-got-them- scars keeps surprising me with new nooks, crannies and lower hanging parts.
I've still got my hair. Thank Gd I've still got my hair.
I am blessed. I get it. To get older is to be alive.
Also getting older brings an increased consciousness of hardship and bullshit and a lesser desire to tolerate that bullshit.
Sadness becomes a bigger ingredient baked into the who that I am.
The happy go lucky girl I once was or some days pretended to be- she isn't even a fantasy anymore. Gritty, honest, funny, open and wise (by no choice of my own) is part of this phase.
Almost forty-five acknowledges the truth of my circumstances.
My life is good. But it is so damn hard to feel good.
My life is good. But it could be better. I want it to be better.
My life is good. But there is no certainty it will stay this way.
My husband likes to remind me that things are always changing.
I am part of a super close group of six girls who through the past twenty years have laughed ourselves to tears. And cried. A lot.
In the past seven years, between the six of us, we have lost three moms, three mother in laws, one father in law and most recently one beautiful younger sister.
Staggering how quickly we are reminded where we are all headed.
So of course, almost forty-five includes the over abundance of worry over the things that don't matter- like my shriveling-
And the over abundance of worry over the more important things that will probably be ok- like my teenagers and my husband.
I try really hard to steer clear of worrying about the things that I know will not be ok. This is one of my greatest challenges.
I think back to my mom at my age. She had no idea there were just twenty years left of her short life.
Would she have done anything differently?
Would I have?
tick tick tick. Somedays, today, my body feels like a cross between a time bomb and the sands in the hourglass from
"The Days Of Our Lives Soap Opera."
But I can choose how to work with the timer... If I'm really under the life-gun so to speak then I better get cracking.
There's so much more to do.
There's so much more to give.
And even while I continue to shrivel climbing the professional youth-obsessed-entertainment ladder, I will do so honoring my almost forty-five years.
Yeah, I do Botox, color my hair, diet, exercise and wear hoop earrings in an attempt to have a "younger" looking appearance.
But I do so while admitting I'm a bit long in the tooth.
And while I still have my teeth, I've got plenty to smile about.
How do you feel about getting older?
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