Aging Gratefully

“I’m turning 39 tomorrow.  Is there anything worse?” read the Facebook post from Connie I-Can’t-Remember-How-I-know-Her.  I added Connie as one of my friends during the first few frenzied days of being on Facebook.  You know that time when you are just so excited that anyone wants to be your friend that you are accepting everyone!  Since then, I have become much more judicious in my friend acceptance.  Once, even going so far as to explain to one request I was getting ready to ignore why I was not accepting her onto my friend list (yes, she had done something THAT bad).  

There are times now when I go through my friend list and “clean out my friend closet” which is simply the act of purging “friends” whose face I can’t remember and whose status comments make absolutely no sense to me.  But, through all of this, somehow Connie How-Do-I-Know-You, made it through my friend filters and so I reread her post “I’m turning 39 tomorrow.  Is there anything worse?” and I contemplated my response.

There IS something traumatic about approaching a new decade of life.  It is a time for reflection and introspection.  I remember turning 10 and thinking that now that I was in the double digits I was truly a big girl and I could no longer cry when I scraped a knee or otherwise hurt myself.  Little did I know that those tween/teen years would bring raging hormones and menstrual cramps that would bring me to my knees.  Nor did I anticipate the inverse relationship of bigger boobs and a shorter attention span (well on anything unrelated to boys).  Those years brought acne and braces, anorexia and PMS. My lifelong struggle with insomnia also began brought on at this age by insecurities about my new body and my new self.  

And then I entered my twenties—the “Me” decade.  Ah, the joy of being 21 (the last birthday we truly look forward to). Suddenly, I was on my own.  During this decade, my body went from pubescent to womanly.  My health issues changed from regulating my menstrual cycle to understanding the intricacies of my body.  I learned that dieting didn’t work for me but changing my lifestyle did.  I could no longer eat pizza at 2:00 a.m. and maintain a healthy weight.  In fact, I could no longer eat pizza at anytime.  I introduced myself to jazzercise and aerobic, step classes and kick boxing.  I tried body building and weight training and finally learned to amuse myself on a stationary bike.  After two children and two miscarriages, I learned how to balance being a mom, an employee and a loving (most of the time) wife.  I also learned that most of my friends and co-workers were on a drug called Prozac. Most frustrating of all, I still had PMS and my sleepless nights were now brought on by crying babies and their night terrors.

While I didn’t have a hard time turning 30, 30 and a half was a wretch.  I suddenly realized that I was getting older and that there was no turning back.  I learned that my body wasn’t my own and that the laws of gravity apply to all things. And, oh yeah, the rhythm method of birth control DOESN’T WORK! After three children, my focus became maintaining a healthy lifestyle for me AND my family.  No more soft drinks in our house and no more fried foods for anyone.  Gone was the red meat and in its place were chicken, fish and beans.  From whole milk to skim and low-fat galore, our kitchen was filled with healthy eating choices.  However, I have since been told that had I looked under beds (including my own), I could have found any number of candy wrappers and soda cans.  And suddenly, this decade brought concerns about cancer – breast, skin, colon and brain. And still PMS continued as did my insomnia.  But, somehow, I made it through relatively unscathed (still no Prozac).

Forty snuck up on me.  One day I was 39 and minding my own business and the next…BAM! A surprise birthday welcomed the new decade.  Many a comment has been made about how “40 is the new 30”.  My husband even compared me to a fine wine (he said I was just getting better with age).  I told him I felt like a block of cheese-- sharp and moldy. Regardless, this new age was upon me and so were new health issues.  It takes a little longer to get out of bed –when my feet hit the floor, my knees pop and my back sometimes grumbles.  I also realized that the creaking I hear at night is not the bed but rather my bones.  My metabolism seemed to know the moment the clock rang in 40 and immediately slowed down.  No longer do my three-mile runs keep the weight off.  I now have to double my mileage to maintain the same weight which allows me to make good use of my sleeplessness and hit the road at 4:00 a.m. for a brisk morning run.  

My “always been so low” blood pressure snuck up to normal and beyond and suddenly my heart palpitates at the most inconvenient times.  In fact, Prozac is looking more like an option as are Lexapro and Wellbutrin.   

My friends and I are beginning to face entry into our “pre-menopausal” period.  This, I am told, is when you just begin to dread the hot flashes, the loss of your best “friend” and the hair on your legs which is now growing on your chin! PMS turns even more violent and the few hours of uninterrupted sleep entirely disappear as does any pretense of good temper.  Good times, I’ve been told, good times. 

I have not yet faced 50 and beyond.  But, what I know is that I will age gracefully because there is no other option.  I will not be a Joan Rivers whose face is so tight when she smiles her ears move.  I won’t use Botox which will relieve my face of most of its expression (yes, even my most effective glare that can stop a child or a wayward co-worker from doing evil from 20 paces).  I will embrace my fine lines (while I continue to invest in and use a very good moisturizer) with the understanding that I earned each of those lines, darn it! I know that I can’t compete with the body of a 19 year-old.  But, neither can she compare in knowledge or confidence to me. I tell my husband to go ahead and look, but we both know that there are just some things he can’t afford.

So to Connie You’re-Going-To-Be-Deleted-From-My-Friend-List, I wrote this response. “There is something worse than turning 39—and that is not making it past 38.”