I’ve been talking for several years about embracing the concept of AGING GRACEFULLY. It’s something I defined and committed to a long time ago — not dying my (now gray) hair, not bemoaning wrinkles, not desperately clinging to youth, but accepting the aging process as natural and — dare I say — good.
So of course over the weekend I saw a photo that a friend took of me. It’s not a singularly unflattering picture. It’s not taken at a bad angle. She took several and, as I looked in the mirror, I realized that This Is Just What I Look Like Now (TM).
I am fat (“obese,” per my doctor), old, and gray. And I hate it.
Above: The picture in question.
When I initially talked about “aging gracefully” in my 20s, I assumed I would simply make the transition into being Helen Mirren and that would be it. I would wear Chanel and shop at Nordstrom’s and sweep about town looking fantastic.
I don’t know why I expected that. But instead I’m wearing ripped jeans and converse all-stars, hugging farm kittens, with a haircut for a 20 year old and the curious unrooted feeling of being self-employed.
I have no idea how I feel about any of this.