Wrinkled Was Not One Of The Things I Wanted To Be When I Grew Up

In my head, I'm one hip chick. Between good genes, an awareness of the benefits of a healthy and active lifestyle, and a Sex-in-the-City mentality, I think I am one well-rounded woman.

I'm only thirty seven (and I was saying that for a good six months before I turned 37 - so I'm hanging onto 37 a little longer on my next birthday - just so you know). Logically, I know age means nothing. It's how you feel, how you act, how you think... your attitude to and your involvement in life that determines your 'age'.

I can be a child at times, even though I am the parent. I feel playful and kittenish although I am more likely coined (and I dislike this term immensely) cougar. When some young handsome fellow holds the door for me and says 'You're welcome M'am' I think 'Who the hell is he talking to?' I half think he's flirting with me, and he thinks he's being a good boy, holding the door for someone that reminds him of his mother.

In my head, I'm about twenty five.

Now, I act mature. I mean, it's not like I am coming onto the stock boy at the grocery store. I wear age appropriate clothing for the most part. (Although I will say this thirty-seven year old mother of four is stuck somewhere between Suzy Shier and Tan-Jay; too old for one, not old enough for the other.) And although I am on the backside of thirty, I feel like the best and most productive years are in front of me, not behind me.

But there are fleeting moments of betrayal.

I was at the pool the other day with my husband and two young daughters for public swimming. As I sat shivering in the paddling pool (can't think of anything I truly dislike more than a chlorine filled pool of tepid water), I was watching my handsome husband playing with the girls. He is lovely to me. He has terrific skin, and dark hair. But, I couldn't help but notice while he was all wet, how thin his hair is getting in a very large area on the top of his head.

For a split second, I was half horrified, that I was married to an old guy. EEeww. (poor thing, he's 43) The feeling passed, but there are moments since then when it returns and I have to remind myself that I am a grown-up, too.

Now please understand, I realize we are 'not that old', however somewhere inside of me, my mother is eternally 36. My own dad passed away at 42. So, for me to be thirty-seven and forty-three is older than my parents!!! You see?

Sooooo.... I am washing my face last night, leaning over the sink, scrubbing furiously with my trusty Dove beauty bar. I rinse emphatically and grab the towel blindly. I finish drying with the towel, lean into the mirror and open my eyes to ensure I've removed all the make-up. And that's when I notice it. The loose chicken-ish skin around my cheekbones and under my eyes.

Not only is it sagging slightly, hanging forward, drooping as I lean into the mirror to get a better look. But I can't help but notice, it looks faintly like a cracked, dried up lake bottom... a mish-mash of fine lines, going this way and that way. Crow's feet. Laugh lines.

I snap away from the mirror, stand up straight and try to get a better look.

From a distance I look like me.
The age-less me.
But up close, I feel betrayed.

Part of me still had plans to become a movie star when I grew up.