WHAT KIND OF AGER AM I?

I have long wrestled with how to label my own aging. When I first began writing, I adopted the phrase “Reluctant Ager”. I thought it cleverly summarized my lack of enthusiasm for advancing in years. Look, I am thrilled to be aging… it means I am still here… alive and kicking. But it also means things going south. Specifically, the neck.

Oh, and chin hairs.

With that last part in mind, I will continue to stand by my ‘aging sucks’ category. At least ‘aging sucks’ has some balls… whereas “Reluctant Ager” just feels kinda meh.

But if I wasn’t reluctant, what kind of ager was I?

While “The Next Chapter” certainly feels like the perfect choice to define my turn to writing, does it appealingly embrace the years? Not really. It lacks excitement. It’s a bit dull, and mostly uninspiring. I desperately want something with a happier, zingier ring to it.

It turns out there’s a whole treasure trove of euphemisms out there that sound good at first… but yikes. Take “The Golden Years.” It sounds all warm and sunny, but doesn’t it also read like a retirement community brochure?

I don’t recall where I first heard the phrase “The Encore Years,” but it stuck with me. For about two weeks. Then I thought, what would come after the encore? Oh right. The End. Yikes. I do not like that.

AT ALL.

Then there’s “The Third Act.” So very theatrical and sophisticated… but what happens when the third act is over? The house lights come up and it’s the FINAL CURTAIN.

Notice a theme?

Or how about “Super Ager”? Sharp minds, out-running people half your age… a superhero. YES! But oh, the pressure. Sounds a hundred percent exhausting.  

Following my recent cataract surgery, I can only describe my now-seeing eyes as akin to Dorothy landing in Oz. Suddenly, colors are brighter, more saturated, even flamboyant! The flip side? My wrinkles are now visible in terrifying high definition.

Why do I go there?

I can’t help it.

Or can I?

Ugh… our collective, internalized relationship with aging is a real pickle. A conundrum. A total contradiction. On one hand, we are bombarded with images to aspire to – all radiant, youthful perfection.

On the other hand, we are told to celebrate the undeniable privilege, the acquisition of wisdom, and the grand arrival of… you guessed it …things going south, chin hairs, and the neck.

When did we become so fearful of the natural evolution of appearance and immune to what that beauty reveals? Similarly, how did we go from letting it all hang out to Botox at twenty-five? I am kind of stuck between the two.

I want to be both nonconformist AND cute.

What’s a girl to do? How do we combat all these mixed messages? Don’t even get me started on the “anti-aging” marketing shit.

So, what tag could work?

“The Uncensored Age” or “The High-Def Era”?

You say what you mean, filters be gone, And you refuse to fade into the background, everything is vividly clear – including one’s own embraceable mirror.

Or

“The Flamboyant Chapter!”

Because why should aging be beige and quiet? I know I want to lean into the bright, the saturated, the loud and the unapologetic!! Don’t you?

DAZZLING!

COLORFUL!

VIBRANT!

GUTSY!

FUN!

Perhaps it’s time for me to put the kibosh on labeling the progression of years altogether. My god, there are enough of those labels out there. Therefore, I am officially upgrading my “reluctant ager” label to unclassified.

In light of all these conflicting signals, can we agree on a you-do-you and I’ll-do-me kind of arrangement? Buy the things or let the things do their thing, fix the things or celebrate the things.

Here’s the thing… we each get to choose.

Case in point: one person could utter a whole bunch of effing foul language while pulling that rogue chin hair out by its very roots, AND another might gleefully sing its praises and wait for two more to make a braid.

PS: I should probably rethink my ‘aging sucks’ category situation. Nahhhhh…

~featured image via Pinterest