I've been known to be critical of those who try (unsuccessfully) to defy the aging process. I've been judgmental, yes, I think that's the right word, judgmental of people who get botox injections or plastic surgery . . . or elderly women who wear clothing that conflicts with their age or older men who date younger women in a transparent attempt to feel youthful. It's been easy to be so critical, since I've looked rather younger than my age (thanks for your good genes, Mom and Dad). I was at a party the other night, and someone kept saying to me "You don't have any wrinkles" in an accusatory manner. I pointed out my crow's feet, but that didn't seem to matter.
Still, over the last few months, I've seen my body start to change. In spite of my intense bouts on the treadmill and the weight lifting, I'm gaining weight. Even though I've started taking B Vitamins intravenously (kidding), my hair has started to thin. The other night while waiting to drift off to sleep, I came to the happy realization that if I lose my hair, I can start wearing wigs . . . beautiful wigs with thick hair in whatever color I choose.
I live in a society where older women can get overlooked. I see myself doing that sometimes, much to my dismay. At the same time, I have older female friends who are gutsy, independent, and absolutely vibrant. As of this moment, I'm committing to defy not aging but diminishment.
I plan to be a loud, smart-a**, feisty old woman who travels the world and doesn't care what anyone else thinks of me. I'll study new languages and become an expert in all kinds of unexpected things. I'll wear patterns with patterns and doc martens that look like motorcycle boots. I'll have a different wig for different moods, and I'll keep listening to alt-rock until the day I die.
When that day comes, cremate me in my docs and scatter my ashes in the wind. A box won't be able to contain the energy I release.