It’s happening. I mean it’s always been happening obviously, but you know what I mean. It’s Happening in obvious ways, by which I mean ways that I don’t like. When does growing up cease to be called that? When I literally stopped heading upwards? Can’t be because that happened back in my pre-twenties. Emotionally? I think we can all see from these posts that that’s still very much in progress, although I will say I’m mostly an adult these days, able to tell when the child is having a tantrum or upset, less identified and more able to turn up for her. But at some point at which we all agree but can’t collectively pin-point, it being such an internal dialogue and movable feast, so subjective it makes my head hurt, growing up becomes growing old. I am growing old. My jowls have made an appearance. I have iron grey shoots in my hair. My bingo wings are a source of amusement to my children. My eyes are going. My body can no longer tolerate high doses of sugar, or for that matter, anything. I must be temperate and steady and get my highs some other way. I am on a voyage inward, having voyaged outward to my full. But what does it look like, this ageing game that I’m lucky to be playing, the alternative being to be dead? There’s harking back to photos of when I was young and realising how good I looked and how I didn’t realise it at the time. There’s the absolute certainty that I will look back at photos of myself now and think the exact same thing. There’s the wild annoyance at twenty-year-olds publicising their anti-aging fit-for-life diets and exercise regimes. I shout at their animated faces on my screen that the reason they look like that is not because of kale and yoga, it’s because they’re twenty. They don’t know about this stuff. They’re not there yet. But they will be. And I try hard to not make that sound like a weapon, and vengeance, which it is sometimes when I feel cross and misunderstood. Because when I was young I’d look at people like me and think they’d let themselves go, if only they’d make an effort, it was sad. And for sure they think the same of me. Yet I know the truth of this ageing game too; its wildly unfair and brilliantly fair rules, the hand that I justify again and again, the story of erasing the story of shame that I would grow old at all.
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I'm right there with you! Who is that frizzy haired, bulbous nosed, wrinkled old broad I've become? I've been thinking lately that maybe our foremothers didn't give up so much as surrender to the more important parts of what we have to offer? At least that's what I tell myself when I look in the mirror. BTW you are beautiful in both shots! Thank you for a wonderful piece.
I bloody hear you (again!). I think we’d make good drinking buddies haha! I’ve been bemoaning the same things -- add to that podge that’s hard to shift, creepy chest, intolerance for people (in general). What a joy this is 😆 I did enjoy this. Great piece. I’m catching up on Substacks this evening hence the flurry of comments :)