I’ve been thinking about aging lately.
When I saw the movie This Is 40, I wondered if everyone is as freaked by turning 40 as Leslie Mann’s character is, who was so horrified she couldn’t even let anyone, including her kids, say she was 40; she just kept emphatically insisting she was 38. Is mean, is this relatable?
You see, I’m 46 and have no trouble announcing it to anyone who asks — or even doesn’t ask. I’ve never felt better. I’ve done a lot, I’ve seen a lot, I’ve felt a lot, and I’m finally in acceptance of who I am.
I work out because I love to sweat, because I want to be healthy for my kids, and because working out is God’s mood stabilizer. I work out because I want to be stronger and live longer, but not because I’m desperate to lose five pounds.
In fact, fuck five pounds.
I’ve finally accepted that I have a bigger butt, but it doesn’t define me like it did in high school and for too many years beyond — years where if I was naked with a man I would do a ridiculous sideways saunter out of a room to avoid giving a straight-on look at the ass. These days, it’s no longer a liability, just part of who I am — my distinctive mark. I can finally own my flaws.
Does this mean that I embrace every wrinkle on my face, let my hair go gray, and spend my time in comfortable Aerosoles shoes? Oh hellz no (I’m open to change).
I love Botox and get it any chance I can afford it. I had laser lipo on the back of my thighs, but only because it was offered to me for free. I try to take care of my skin and body because inside I still feel 25 and I’d prefer if my outside reflected a tiny bit of my inner feisty attitude.
I want to wear pink boots, go rollerskating, and listen to Carly Rae Jepson or Tupac or some sort of acoustic vagina music really loud in the car. I got my belly button pierced at 30 and my first tattoo last year. Sometimes I still shop at Forever 21 despite the fact that I passed 21 twenty-five years ago.
Okay, my back gets jacked up when I try to do a cartwheel on the front lawn, and all of a sudden I can’t go on the teacup ride at Disneyland without getting nauseous and feeling a migraine coming on, and to be totally honest I’d prefer being home on the couch with reality TV and a comfy throw than out at a party or, God forbid, nightclub any day of the week.
But the bottom line is I’m fine with 46. Actually, I love 46. And I truly believe that age doesn’t need to be a stigma.
So yeah, let’s rock our forties!