I looked into the mirror yesterday and ruffled my hands through my hair. I didn’t look too bad, but there was no doubt that I wasn’t thirty anymore. Once upon a time I could pass for twenty-five at thirty-five. I was a ‘yummy mummy’ of a tall teenager. I should have soaked it up while I could. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
Now it’s sink or swim. I can approach the process with gusto and live my life to the full – not worrying too much about the ravages of ageing or any of its sidekicks. I can age gracefully and look after myself inwardly and outwardly with good diet, meditation, exercise and acceptance. Or I can go down kicking and screaming and not act my age most of the time, continue to ride around on my motorbike, have my ups and downs, enjoy my life most of the time, and maybe even save up for a facelife in a few years.
I like to have options, and all the above options will be considered. I haven’t made up my mind about growing old. I’m still growing up. I have a long way to go before I will probably relate to getting older. Acceptance if fine, but options are better.
I’ve booked into the hairdressers tomorrow for a new haircut. Maybe I will go short and punk for a while, with a touch of colour to spruce me up and annoy the hell out of my mother. I’m not going to slip into the stigma of getting older yet. We as a society are so focused on not growing older, we forget how to do it anyway. The older of yesterday is not the older of today. Who knows where I will end up in forty years time? I could be the first punk great-grandmother to ride a motorbike around the continent.