When I’m 54

I woke up to greet 54 this morning. Do I grit my teeth and aggressively grab this birthday by its neck to establish who’s the boss of me, mindset or chronology, or do I gently slide into this new year with the graceful nonchalance of a well heeled, red-lipsticked French woman tying a silk scarf around her moisturized neck? 

Every morning when I get up, I raise my arms into a big, elongating stretch. It makes me feel like I’m six feet tall, and still I am alarmed when I look into the mirror and see a stature so much smaller than the version of me that’s in my head. Alas, It is a glorious thing to wake up and nothing aches. I have a secret for that.

Don’t play sports when you’re young. Seriously, all those dorky years spent in the darkroom or sidelined because I was the scrawny, unathletic type with deflated balloons for lungs has paid off in adulthood. Nothing creaks. I don’t audibly groan when I stand up from criss-cross applesauce. In fact, I can still sit criss-cross applesauce. And because I find there are few things I can brag about, let me gloat for a moment that I can in fact arise from sitting on the ground without using my hands or momentum. Even my college kid can’t do that and he’s athletic. My body is not failing me, and I do not take that for granted.

My body is not failing me, and I do not take that for granted.

I say this every year, but it bears repeating. Aging is a privilege. Too many people don’t get to greet 54, which is why part of me wants to stare into its beady little eyes and say “You’re not the boss of me,” while the other part of me wants to respectfully honor 54 and not ruffle feathers. Not ruffling feathers has never been in my constitution. My mother will tell you that all 10 pounds of me came out with a voice to be heard. Nevermind that my face was so fat it looked like I had no eyes and my mother screamed. I have made her scream a lot over the years. 

When I was younger, I imagined someone in her fifties to be matronly, square, smelling of Ponds cold cream and buttermints. To be fair, I thought my mom was an old lady when I was a teenager, and she was in her thirties and incredibly effortlessly stylish. I mean, we all think our parents are not cool. I like to verbalize to my sons often that I am indeed cool, making me decidedly uncool. I am in fact listening to Kim Wilde as I write this. Kids in America holds up. I have admittedly never departed the eighties when it comes to music. For good reason. IFYYK

I am now at an age where I have to scroll longer when filling out online forms. My coming of age is the stuff of history books. Women my age are the target of ads that are intended to make us feel like shit about ourselves, while men have license to age with graying temples and fine lines that are considered sexy. Meanwhile, I am supposed to use 20 different serums, creams, moisturizers, micellar water (WTF is that anyway?!), oils, waxes, dyes, and more to reclaim the beauty of my youth. And I’m not even covering all the ads for shapewear, weight loss, and pills. I didn’t realize only the young are beautiful. Also, news flash, I was never the pretty girl, but the nuances of that must wait for another day. I like to say I peaked late (in my forties) and never plateaued. Ahem. Peaking late is worth the wait because you just keep going up.

Pro tip: Don’t say “You look good for your age.” “You look good” suffices. Don’t perpetuate societal pressure for women to have a youthful glow in her fifties and beyond. Instead, look for the glow of wisdom. I promise you, women my age with zero fucks to give glow in a way we never did decades ago. Letting go just hits different. Women paradoxically become invisible yet a target at the same time. We are to longingly reach back for our youth with greased hands rather than stomp our feet into the ground to own our age. The best is not behind me. 

We paradoxically become invisible yet a target at the same time. 

And because I am cool, dammit, I’ll leave you with words of wisdom from Harry Styles. 

Go home, get ahead, light-speed internet

I don’t wanna talk about the way that it was

Leave America, two kids follow her

I don’t wanna talk about who’s doin’ it first

As it was

You know it’s not the same as it was

As it was, as it was

(I also listen to Frank Ocean on repeat, but those lyrics would make you blush.)