I am 54 years old and proud of it. I have always been upfront about my age. A couple of my women friends are aghast. They admonish me a lot.”Don’t ever divulge your real age. Ever!” “It should remain a state secret.” ” It is socially unacceptable to reveal your age.” ” Tsk, tsk, tsk Just keep them guessing.”
I can’t understand why some women hide their real age. I suppose vanity lurks behind it. I just know that I look a few years younger than my age. I admit this without any conceit at all. Maybe I am lucky to have inherited some good genes? Maybe because I am small at five feet? I don’t really dwell on it.
I am aware that since I went into menopause my skin has lost its elasticity and is a lot drier than before. I don’t lose sleep over it. I just use a good low foam cleanser and a moisturizer at night. Thanks to my being a brown skinned Asian the wrinkles mercifully do not appear as deep.
Nowadays, my mind is focused on how blessed I am to have lived this long. It is a personal achievement allowed by God’s grace. I got married at 38, became a Mom at 47 and learned ashtanga yoga at 50. Through the years, I have worked with inspiring people. I have immersed myself in various cultures through my travels. I have kept in touch with friends who have known me since I was 13. I have made a fool of myself in love. I have been praised at work. I learned and continue to live so as to learn more.
Each day brings something new to discover. The perfect minestrone recipe that my husband likes. A baking school near our place that I can probably enroll in. A cute wooden tray table for the garden. A perfectly turned phrase in my article. A funny remark from my son.
Sure the middle age woes of creaky bones and weight gain creep up on me. But I choose to embrace middle age accepting its warts and limitations as well as its wisdom and possibilities. For when I think about it age is just a number.