This morning my son asked me, “Mom, why do you have wrinkles?” and instead of flipping out like my mother would have done, I just said, “Skin gets wrinkly as you get older.”
This is the same child who says, “My face is always changing. I look different now than when I was a baby and when I’m a big kid, my face will look different too.”
“My face will get wrinkles when I’m old too,” he says this morning.
And I say, “Yup.”
And he nods, accepting that as a reality.
I guess that’s how I’m teaching my children not to fear aging?
I have looked younger than I am for most of my life. I’m a tiny lady and frequently mistaken for and/or treated as a child even by people who know better. I have never really heard “you look so much younger than that” in a way that wasn’t condescending in some way. I’m pretty tired of it.
So freaking bring it on, man. I will take the wrinkles and the gray hair and the no f*cks to give attitude. I will join the whatever-color-hat society and wear head-to-toe purple. I will fear no stereotype as I yell at the neighbor’s kids to get off my lawn and I will laugh at my fitness instructor when he asks me to do something only 22-year-old television stunt doubles actually need to know how to do and sit that one out, thanks.
I am 100% OK with looking older or seeming older or acting older or being mistaken for older.
Getting older is another story. Everything freaking hurts and I keep hearing all this stuff about perimenopause on the horizon and I gotta tell ya: It Does NOT Sound Like a Good Time.
So who cares about wrinkles. Honestly.