I look in the mirror at six in the morning at the downward lines in the corner of my mouth. They’re starting to give me a permanent unsmile when my face is at rest. I appraise the tired eyes with bags under them. Eyes that are full of pain and love in equal measure and crinkle in the corners when I smile. My hair is a salt and pepper blend leaning towards ever more grey with a silver sheen at times. At others, it appears as a dull battleship flatness. My upper lip is starting to get those vertical wrinkles that can make it look like I have a mustache. I’ve waited 45 years to have a my own mustache. The whiskers on my chin are grey. I cut but don’t pluck them.
I know according to widely held social mores I am supposed to be disappointed with my aging looks. I am supposed to be hypercritical and disapproving of my increasingly older appearance. But I’m not. In fact, it is a grand marker of my unimagined survival and grace under fire.
My teeth are not a lovely shade of white. I have the most interesting droops and sags to my body. My breasts are no longer perky. My muscle tone increasingly disappears. I have unusual spots curving around one side of my face like an alien on television. I have irritating skin tags that briefly bleed when I pull them off. I have a crop of dark growths on my back that need to be removed occasionally.
I know I’m supposed to be disgusted and disappointed by all these signs of aging. I’m simply not. How many dear friends did not live to see these signs? It’s a declaration of my struggles and march to elder status. I work to be kind and interested in others. I’m restrained in doling out advice to younger people. I strive to listen. I’m honored to be alive. I love women who look like Maggie Smith, Helen Mirren, and Judi Dench. Nothing is more painful than to see women mar their aging faces with makeup and plastic surgery.
Women I’ve worked with relentlessly color their hair to hide their grey. I don’t know how many old blonds, or young ones for that matter, we need in society but it’s over the top. When I said I loved my grey, I was told the grey in my hair had a pretty pattern. Given that they’ve never seen their full grey look, their unique pattern was most likely missed. I earned my grey and am proud of it. It is a sign of triumph.
Women say they are discounted and ignored as they enter this phase. I believe a loud mouthed, loud dressed old woman cannot be ignored. Break out the protest signs. I will not go meekly into a corner. I’ll just speak a whole lot louder with a caustic wit. Younger women need insistent, colorfully dressed role models. Give thanks to the “fuck off fifties.”
Yesterday morning, my sweetheart of 34 years looked across the table at me and said I was stunningly beautiful. I’m touched. I’ve said the same to her. Look out, we still got it after all these years.
It’s not like my aging body is a piece of cake. With chronic pain, arthritic joints, and slowed reflexes, it only looks good. Laugh if you will. I only have one so I choose reverence whenever I can. I can’t be waiting around for someone else to appreciate it for me. It’s the only thing I truly own in this world and even that is a collaboration. I’d be a fool not to applaud it.
I’ve come to think of my body as this amazing universe in space, separate and distinct from other bodies circling in this earthly solar system. Much is unknown in this universe with extraordinarily complex interacting systems. Inside, there are living beings in societies I’ll never see. This is probably just as well. It’s a bit unnerving. Although many but not all of these have been mapped, their inner workings still defy our understanding. Their response to stimuli over decades is unique. We don’t understand why some develop one way and others another. How can this mind blowing specialness not be revered? Yes, we suffer pain. Yes, we must let go of younger physical ways of doing things. But we have this astonishing gift of being alive where our eyes and autonomic systems represent life, something conferred by a magic we cannot hope to comprehend. This is a life that I alone am blessed with.
My body has maps of many types. In summer, I frequently marvel at one specifically, and yes, I took a picture. Where could this map reside? It looks vaguely topical, possibly tropical, lifted from the geology of a place on the globe. It appears to have water on both sides, beaches, green foliage, mountains, and rivers. Or is that a school of pink fish? It is a colorized version of a picture of the veins just below my ankle. I know these veins are supposed to be ugly. They’re not. To me, they represent a beautiful map of where I’ve been and the pulsing life within me. How could I not be dazzled?
Reporting from Life’s front.
Joceile
6/24/23
[Picture of colorized map including water, beaches, mountains, and vegetation with blue, green, pink, red, and tan. Not created by an AI program.]
