Growing Older

It is quite amazing to grow older, to grow up perhaps; to realise that life is a fast ride, in a faster car. I do not think I quite got it until I truly began to see the wearing of life on my face and body; how humanness has a far more tenacious quality of beauty as it draws closer to the edge of disappearing. When I see photos of myself as a middle aged female, I am both bemused and somehow relieved.

            The beauty myth of my youth was a tough, sharp path that I never figured out. As much as I sometimes strove to find it, to fit into a system of socialized attractiveness also freaked me out and felt harmful and dishonest.  It also often hurt physically to put energy and time into the crafting of “woman.”

             I wore these ridiculous shoes once, tall heels, uncomfortable. I remember the pain of trying to walk, and how damaged my ankles felt.  I could never put them on again.  It hurt that much. Why did I do such a thing?  I wanted something.  I was grasping for some attention, some validation of my external worth.  Getting old is a hoot. 

            I have tons of wrinkles from endless non-sunscreened days in the garden and swimming.  I have a few glorious silver strands rocking my bean, my pubis (as in the basement) are silver foxing it big time....maybe because there is not as much air play in the lower quadrant.  None the less...it is fun, and silly to get old.

            There is playfulness to not giving a rat's ass about what anyone thinks of my fashion sense or that I continually forget to brush my knotty nest of hair.  I just feel better, less contracted, more transparent, feistier, more open, friendly, curious about the world and every nuance of her magnificence. 

            And then there are people as well: good hearted humans out there to notice and to engage with.  As I grow older I feel even less inclined to see the "other" and instead, to just love them, no big deal; to just care, and engage as I can.

            When I was a young, struggling woman I spent a lot of time looking in the mirror attempting to figure out if I was valuable and acceptable.  Jezzz....if I could take that time back and use it to dance more, to write poems, to kiss and cuddle with reckless abandon, well…I sure the hell would.

            Yet the past has come to pass...and right now it’s good, truly good, kind of rank and ripe, seasoned, gnarly and willing to tear a good chunk of life right of the backside of existence. Whatever time I have left I sure the hell am not going to be dicking the dog and lusting at the fountain of lost youth that I did not even really understand. I am going hitch up my wool socks and ride my pony into the sunset, silver locks flying.