A fella I am quite fond of for a variety of reasons mentioned to me that he thought I seemed insecure about my age.  He asked if playing an older woman in a show was somehow affecting my ability to deal with my age.  The woman I am playing is 133.   A bit extreme-and if playing a 133 year old woman seemed to be affecting the reality of my (vibrant-I might add) age then I have more to worry about than applying anti wrinkle cream religiously. The truth is I am not all that concerned about my age.  It is what it is-I have packed in a few cycles of ferocious growth into these 40-ish years. I am the new 30. I am not mid life….unless I am living a shorter life than I had hoped.   I am healthy.  I am confident.  I am wiser than I was.  I know me more than I ever thought possible.  I am able to make decisions based on a certain kind of truth that can only come with the knowing of age. I can detect bullshit better than ever-and I can comment on it. And I do.  ALOT.  I still make mistakes and do stupid things.  I still suffer wounds of the heart.  I still feel unsure……..but, I know better.  I know more.  I know.

There are so many things I love about being at this point in my life-that said- here is what is not so great.

I can’t see.  I love to read and I can’t see anymore.  I broke down and purchased some reading glasses and I actually wear them.  Parts hang lower and are more squishy-never mind the amount of exercise-it is just the way it is. I have made peace with my C-section scar.  I lose my concentration-quicker than ever and sometimes don’t care if it comes back.   I have more grey hair-but thanks to my beloved Paul-every 4 weeks now-grey is a beautiful shade of chocolate and auburn.  I am set in my ways……….and while I am sure long time friends and family members will argue the point-I was never this set in my ways.  My get up and go- really, truly, just does go-only I am no longer with it.  I have a tremendous amount of responsibility-and I think I thought as I got older I would not-but as I look back over the bulk of my life-responsibility has been forefront.  Oldest child sydrome and all that.  Responsibility hovers. 

I do have more wrinkles.  But I worked very hard for them-and there are a few I’ll not tame.  I have tried Botox-to un-eleven my “elevens” as the date for my big screen close up neared.  But this was more about vanity than insecurity…….wait- are these two nuances not from the same slice of pie?  OK….so maybe a little.  Scorpion, nature,…. remember? …… Never mind, it made me feel better-the caveat is the eleven’s return after the Botox wears off-and like many vanity junkies I know-you have to keep up the treatment.  I can not afford to look that less elevened

All this talk of age and yet I have not revealed my true age.  I know it is easy to figure out and I don’t care.  I have a friend who refuses-at any price-to divulge her true age.  “Too judgemental”, she says.  “I don’t need someone to lable me with age”.  I am two sided on this issue.  I have a realistic whatthefuck side of me that knows you can’t fool anyone in the age of Internet and information…..big fat hairy deal.  Then, I  have this other side of me that is holding fast to the guessing game.  What difference does it make anyway?  I tried lying about my age once-but I failed miserably.  I wanted to be older-so I lied about being older…..I was so busted.  Every year  on my birthday, my dearest friend who caught me in the lie-reminds me of my stupid ass “who lies about being older?” mistake and questions my actual age.  I am not telling.  It is further away from 30-and not too close to 50………..ok, maybe closer than it was-but not that close………….well, maybe closer than I was before……ok.  Enough.  I’ll move on now.