When you're young, not much thought is typically given to how it might be for you in 15 or 20 years or so to climb even a short flight of stairs, to be able to comfortably get in and out of that trendy convertible sports car that sits low and rides smooth and fast, or how your skin, hair, and/or figure might look once the wrinkles, grays, and extra pounds start to settle in.
But as time marches on, the more one starts to take notice of the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) changes in their bodies that remind us we can't stay young forever, regardless of how much time may have been devoted to staying (or getting) in shape and keeping the crow's feet and the forehead lines at bay.
I have two older sisters, both of whom were head-turners in high school (and who, to this day, still are). Though I loved to play in their clothes, shoes, and make-up, I was more tomboyish in my pre-teen years, and struggled all throughout junior and senior high school to try and fit in.
This was despite my lack of fashion sense (like the gaudy two piece blue fake silk dress and silver heels I wore to a high school homecoming game even though I wasn't on the court), an overreliance on lavender eye-shadow and pink lipstick (which did not pair well with braces, lemme tell ya), and the periodic perms/body waves I'd get that made me look like I'd stuck my finger into an electrial socket.
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As time went on and I was working my way through college, I finally developed what I felt was a "uniquely me" style that I was comfortable with and which, ahem, others to a certain extent appreciated. But when my mid-20s hit was when the hair-coloring started, because my blonde hair, which had been white-blonde when I was a child and which turned into a buttery blonde in my teen years, was turning a dull, dishwater blonde. And we couldn't have that.
I was in my late-30s when something else happened - the realization that, though still young relatively speaking, I wasn't a spring chicken anymore and needed to be more careful about volunteering to do the types of strenuous things that took their toll on your joints and muscles over time. Interestingly, this coincided with a visit I made to a makeup store to pick up a box of Clairol hair color and explore new skincare options, only to be directed to a line for "mature skin" by the 20-something sales clerk.
Though I was noticing new limitations in what I could do physically, it was, of course, the emerging gray hairs that I focused on more. Though I didn't literally count each strand, I'd provide my sisters and "friend girls" periodic updates on how the swath of gray that was most obvious (right around the bang line) was getting more noticeable.
One of my sisters tried to make me feel better by telling me it merely looked like "highlights." LOL.
These days, I embrace the gray around my temples, not just because I've had a few people tell me they wish they could get their hair this color, but also because it's truly the "ash blonde" that I strived to have for quite some time, and which I now have without worrying about having to do touch-ups from time to time.
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As for the aches and pains, well, I have more of those now, too, and they've overtaken any fretting about grays and wrinkles (I'm soldiering through an uncomfortable neck and shoulder issue as I write this). It's funny in a way. When my sisters and I get together, we rib each other about how we talk more about whatever hip/back/knee, etc. issue we're dealing with than we ever have before, a sure sign of getting older beyond counting the years as the birthdays cycle around.
But one thing is for certain: the alternative to getting older is not getting older. And though heaven will (hopefully) be willing to receive me when the time comes, I pray the Lord has many more years on this earth in store for me, if for no other reason than to continue to write stories about days gone by and to help educate people on how life is too short to sweat the changes in your looks (though its perfectly acceptable to battle back against those grays with everything you've got...).
