When I was a child, there was a television commercial where two women held out their hands and another person had to guess which one was the mother and which was the daughter by looking at their hands. I don’t even remember what the product was – moisturizer cream? Dish soap? Who cares.
In the smugness of my youth, I always thought this was dumb. Hands? HANDS? I mean, come on. The signs of aging were grey hair and wrinkles on your face. Hands all looked the same.
Right?
Much later in my adulthood, I decided I was going to grow old gracefully. I mean, Retinol is still in scope and Spanks are required, but I wouldn’t use Botox or have plastic surgery on my face to hold onto my youth. Perhaps this is just the smugness-du-jour. Perhaps in a few years, I’ll blog about my procedure and why I changed my mind.
Besides, if I got Botox injected into my brow, how would my children know when to run and hide in fear?
For today, I stand firm. I didn’t think it would be difficult. I had never struggled with aging. Many of my friends turning 40 had issues. Heck, even some turning 30 did. I turned 40 with aplomb. Even 45.
Somewhere around 47, it hit me like a ton of bricks and 49 has been brutal. Like Sarah Palin could see Russia from her porch, I can see 50 clearly from right here at 49.
50.
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In the past few years, both of my oldest daughters have gotten married. One with a big, traditional wedding and one with a more quaint and non-traditional approach. That first wedding is well-documented on my blog. I think I referred to it as my ‘prom’. It was lovely and I got to buy so many matching dresses, I was in heaven.
I shared many photos of the event here on my blog and elsewhere, but I didn’t share one. In fact, I didn’t share this one with anybody. When I was looking through the photographer’s photos and I saw it, I went “Awwwww…” It was so sweet – my mother putting a bracelet on the wrist of my youngest daughter. Cute, right?
Until I realized my mother wasn’t there when we were all getting ready and the one who managed that bracelet’s clasp was me. Me. Just to be sure, I checked the wedding ring in the picture. Mine. Those were my hands. I’d never be on that dish soap commercial now, and aging does, in fact, show in our hands.
I am turning 50 this year. I have a 30 year old daughter and a 10 year old daughter and 3 more in between those two.
My hands are old and my hips sometimes ache and I’m either losing some of my hearing or getting better at tuning people out. There are a lot of things going on here – things happening that didn’t used to happen, things that used to happen that have stopped (thank the lord for small favors!) and things that annoy and, occasionally, disgust me. But that’s not the whole story.
I’m working on it, this turning 50 thing. By the time the day arrives, I want to be at peace with this struggle and ready to celebrate the joy of it.
Because, baby, I am still a force to be reckoned with. I’m on top my game at work, I continue to hone my writing skills, I’m funny and smart, I’ve mastered the art of eye-liner and I still wear cute bras.
Come at me, 50. I can take you on. These old hands know a thing or two about managing life.
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PS: This post is reflective of how I feel today. Next week I may well be sobbing about how my nipples now point south. Well, one of them anyway.
