Ash...the transition begins.
Sixty. Fuck. How is this possible? No need to remind me by saying things like, "well it beats the alternative". I say those things to myself constantly to bolster my own enthusiasm for life. It's all good I tell myself. You are still alive, can still remember most shit, can still hit a tennis ball with some oomph and even get it on when the mood strikes. So, I should be content. Am I right?
I am content but it comes and goes in waves. And those waves get higher and harder and frothier everyday. I have lost count of the spider veins on my legs. I have begun the transition to grey hair with the help of my colourist (go ash...it will blend with the silver). My eyebrows are becoming as sparse as up days in the stock market. I am developing a penchant for eating my main meal of the day at noon. Those senior early bird specials ain't early enough for me it seems. And my bathroom scale must be broken, cause there is no way I weigh what it keeps telling me and lately I find it hard to give a shit anyway.
I read books about the meaning of life (in case I have missed something), birds and longevity diets, skipping from one to the other like a mad woman unable to focus on any of them for more than a chapter before I fall asleep - usually before 9 pm. I never make it through the night without a trip to the loo and sometimes I just stay up and do some banking or mindless social media surfing (FB and Insta, as hip as it gets) until I am tired again. This broken sleep pattern then makes me unable to make it through the afternoon without a nice little power nap for about an hour - my nana nap.
I am officially a senior according to some. When I get back to Canada this spring, I will be able to get a discount at Shopper's Drug Mart. Ain't that something to look forward to?! I am less interested in fashion trends until I hang out with my fashion forward friends (young and old) and when I try to incorporate any of them into my wardrobe, I am an instant "fashion don't"! (Anyone want a pair of "worn only once" floral print tights or a pair of oversized triangular "brush" earrings?). I didn't think so. I like reliable cars even though I still wonder what it would be like to drive around in a vintage Karmann Ghia convertible that I have had a secret longing for ever since Ken Olin's character, Michael Steadman drove one on that series Thirtysomething a few years back. If you don't remember that show, you are too young to relate to this blog and if you do, dare I remind you that the series ended 27 years ago. Truth. WTF!?
Twenty seven years ago, I did not have food sensitivities, age spots. droopy eyelids, molars that keep cracking, breasts that required underwire, sensible panties, progressive lenses, a need for Poise Pads and NOBODY called me Ma'am!
This is it. I am running out of steam to fight the inevitable. The beginning of the last third of my life has arrived and I can no longer deny it, nor do I plan to inject, slice and dice or starve myself to be thin. I will draw the line at that permed grandma hair and Hilary Clintonesque pant suits, but for the most part I am going to try to do this aging thing with a modicum of dignity and a hint of style (think Judi Dench in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).
So, bring it on.
I may not like it but I can bloody take it.