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.