As I was paying at Value Village this afternoon, the checker asked if I had a coupon.
Nope, forgot it.
Senior discount? she asked.
Not yet! Another three years. Or is it eight here? I'm 52.
Ten, she said.
In other words, I had just passed for 62. Ouch-ish.
I commented that since so many women color their hair now, those of us who show our grey probably look older than we are.
She was quiet. I think she was embarrassed.
This isn't the first time I've been reverse-carded, as I like to think of it. I spent the drive home pondering...do I look older than I am? Do I care?
A few lifetimes ago, in the early-80s, I spent two years pursuing, then discarding, my first career dream- as a comedian. I called myself a Feminist Comedian because my comedy reflected my feminist values, including honoring the wisdom of elders. One of the skits I performed was a commercial for "Oil of Old Age, for the woman who's proud of her years."
However, I was in my early twenties, what did I know about how it would feel to face all the changes that we're constantly told are bad and ugly?
Ab-so-lute-ly Nuthin'!
It's not like I've ever been highly groomed or ravishingly beautiful. Even so, accepting the spots and lines and sags has been more difficult than I expected. Especially since inside, I am forever ten.
My mom used to talk about aging gracefully, by which I think she meant letting time take its toll without doing too much to resist it.
Every time I consider some of the costlier ways to "reverse the signs of aging" I think about women in other parts of the world who have to walk miles every day just to get water. The imbalance between my easy narcissism and the effort they must exert to meet their basic needs shakes the vanity out of me and reminds me that, like my mom, I want to age gracefully.
Even more, I want to age gratefully.
One hundred years ago, I would have already passed my expected life span; my probable longevity (my parents lived to 89 and 91) are profound gifts. I am grateful for the opportunity to grow older.
I spent many long years, Many. Long. Years. struggling with depression and horrible feelings of inadequacy. For eleven years I've been free of those debilitating emotions, and the good times build on each other in a lovely way. I am grateful for the time to recover and continue to grow.
While my outsides are being mistaken for ten years older than they are (California childhood, sunscreen hadn't been invented yet; you do the math!) I seem to be in good health. I am grateful for a body that works.
When faced with the barrage of messages about how awful it is to look our age (or older!) it is hard to remember what growing older really means: we are still alive, we are wiser, we have a chance to do even better tommorow.
Let's be grateful for all of it.
Nope, forgot it.
Senior discount? she asked.
Not yet! Another three years. Or is it eight here? I'm 52.
Ten, she said.
In other words, I had just passed for 62. Ouch-ish.
I commented that since so many women color their hair now, those of us who show our grey probably look older than we are.
She was quiet. I think she was embarrassed.
This isn't the first time I've been reverse-carded, as I like to think of it. I spent the drive home pondering...do I look older than I am? Do I care?
A few lifetimes ago, in the early-80s, I spent two years pursuing, then discarding, my first career dream- as a comedian. I called myself a Feminist Comedian because my comedy reflected my feminist values, including honoring the wisdom of elders. One of the skits I performed was a commercial for "Oil of Old Age, for the woman who's proud of her years."
However, I was in my early twenties, what did I know about how it would feel to face all the changes that we're constantly told are bad and ugly?
Ab-so-lute-ly Nuthin'!
It's not like I've ever been highly groomed or ravishingly beautiful. Even so, accepting the spots and lines and sags has been more difficult than I expected. Especially since inside, I am forever ten.
My mom used to talk about aging gracefully, by which I think she meant letting time take its toll without doing too much to resist it.
Every time I consider some of the costlier ways to "reverse the signs of aging" I think about women in other parts of the world who have to walk miles every day just to get water. The imbalance between my easy narcissism and the effort they must exert to meet their basic needs shakes the vanity out of me and reminds me that, like my mom, I want to age gracefully.
Even more, I want to age gratefully.
One hundred years ago, I would have already passed my expected life span; my probable longevity (my parents lived to 89 and 91) are profound gifts. I am grateful for the opportunity to grow older.
I spent many long years, Many. Long. Years. struggling with depression and horrible feelings of inadequacy. For eleven years I've been free of those debilitating emotions, and the good times build on each other in a lovely way. I am grateful for the time to recover and continue to grow.
While my outsides are being mistaken for ten years older than they are (California childhood, sunscreen hadn't been invented yet; you do the math!) I seem to be in good health. I am grateful for a body that works.
When faced with the barrage of messages about how awful it is to look our age (or older!) it is hard to remember what growing older really means: we are still alive, we are wiser, we have a chance to do even better tommorow.
Let's be grateful for all of it.
