I stood in front of the mirror this morning doing a bit of serious lamenting. Fine lines are beginning to etch the corners of my eyes. There are some splotches on my cheekbones, the kind that come from sun and age. There are five more pounds than there were this time last year and I just can't seem to shake them. My shoulder and knee joints hurt more than they don't. But this morning's lament was not sparked by those things. Instead, for the second time in one week, I found a silvery hair. The second time. In one week. My stylist told me a year ago that she saw a bit of silver, but I had never spotted it until this week. It came as a bit of a blow.
I fully realize that in a few months I will be forty. I know I cannot complain because if I am headed to forty, then Dear Jack is headed to fifty, but I am starting to panic a bit at this whole aging thing. Some of it is panic that we aren't doing what we want relationship wise or career wise, mostly because we are stretched too thin time wise. What if by the time we can get the farm and orchard going, we are too old? What if by the time we aren't responsible for Isabella and Rubilee and Harold twenty four seven, we don't have what it takes for crazy, passionate sex? What if we aren't able to travel and see the world? As it is, I see some serious lags in the amount of energy we have compared to even fiver years ago.
At the same time I was lamenting this whole aging problem, I was also satisfied, even pleased, with what I saw in the mirror this morning. Right before school was out, one of my students made the "Wow! You are older than my mom!" comment and then asked if I missed being young. You know, despite the silver hair and the lines and aches, I really do not miss being young. Most of highschool was stressful and miserable. I had a few close friends but I mostly was on the fringes of highschool society. Often, I was on the receiving end of the cattiness that is so ore lane taming highschool girls. I don't think all that bothered me, but what did bother me was my own lack of confidence or feeling of self worth. I don't think I ever walked into a room confident about ALL of me until I was in my late twenties.
I am not sure when I began looking in the mirror and seeing something I liked, but at some point I did. I know that my body is not the same as before I had a child - perkiness is a foreign idea but stretch marks certainly aren't. My body is not as trim as it was even three years ago, despite my frequent workouts and mostly good choices in eating. So, yes, there are flaws, but at some point I began seeing myself as attractive too. Sure, doubt still assails me at times, but mostly, I am good with what I see, with how my body moves, with the way my clothes fit.
It doesn't hurt to be married to a man who freely pats my backside when he walks through the kitchen while I cook, whose eyes enjoy the me has, who touches me even while he sleeps. However, a lot of this comes from generally figuring out who I am as opposed to who I tried to be to fill the role I thought was expected of me. It is not a realistic job to fit the image of beautiful women portrayed in media when your workout time is often sacrificed to take care of a family or grade papers. I am not great at being as good of a cook as my mom and as good of a teacher as Amy and a sometimes caretaker and . . . I am just not Wonder Woman, but I am okay with being me. I am okay with my political thoughts and opinions and likes and dislikes and even my body. It is certainly more fun to enjoy all of me than to fret about what I am or am not. It is okay that I don't fit into the images expected of me. I will take this me, silver hairs and all.
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