I notice I’m getting older.
The fine lines are fine, really.
Even there, where smooth skin once stretched taut and smooth.
I brush my hair, silver strands flashing through.
I’m thirty-five. Halfway to seventy.
This is not an emergency for me.
It is interesting.
To see time change my very face; I understand that I will not be spared this, no matter how much my culture wages war on aging.
At the end of the day we all wash our faces; wash away our masks and creams.
We see the aged face in the mirror.
Women peel themselves out of their Spanx, take off their padded push-up bras; do they feel bereft when their body just is what it is?
Bare-faced, free of artifice, older and different.
We met an elderly couple.
She arranged his collar just so before they headed out into the cold.
She smiled a wreath of wrinkles and twinkles and said
“I’ve been doing this for seventy years! Just like this!”
His eyes were on her, they rested sweetly on her face as she fussed over him.
White hair, wrinkled hands, delight.
I never want to be ashamed of my years
my hair shot with silver.
I do not wish to be tucked-in, pushed up, squeezed here, injected there, dyed and fried and spackled smooth.
My two year-old’s sweet face rests in my lap.
His skin is rosy in sleep; he is beautiful.
So I wish to be also; walking forward into what beauty will become as I age, rather than trying to run back to the blooming glory of youth.
Not idolizing beauty of one age, but plucking up courage to experience new, oft-uncelebrated beauty.