I've got a nice little headache brewing this morning. Perhaps that's because I looked in the mirror and there's no doubt about it: I'm aging.
I've done pretty good, so far, with the Aging Thing. By "pretty good" I mean I weigh about what I did in college, I don't own a single pair of "mom jeans", and my hair is still longish. These are, to me, age-indicators and I've done my best to meet these standards -- at times surpassing them by wearing juvenile baseball jerseys, Converse knock-offs, and taking wacky dance classes with young college girls.
However, the person looking back at me in the mirror shrugs off these attempts at camouflage to reveal a very real, aging woman, and reminds me that there is a difference between youthful and youth. So, while I may be youthful in spirit and activity, I am not young.
Later, I caught a glimpse of myself again, this time in the visor mirror in the car, and I think I saw a gray nose hair. Now that sucks. I remember the day I looked down after showering and discovered my first gray pube. Who wants to have sex with THAT? I thought. Fortunately, my husband did. It's not broken, is it? I'm not sure he actually said that, but that was the sentiment. So I learned to live with it (now them). (An occasional Brazlian bikini wax doesn't hurt the situation, either. Ok, it hurts, but you know what I mean.)
Then I stopped dying my hair (on my head) and noticed the grays had spread upward. That's fine. Whatever. I was determined to embrace my grays for as long as possible. Besides, a shiny gray hair is like an accent... a sparkle, if you will... that draws the eye. I don't mind if a stray gray draws attention to my head. (Or my hoochie, for that matter.)
But my nose? No. This cannot be.
So, tonight I'll spend a little quiet time alone in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers. Mommy needs her privacy. Go away. No, you may not watch! And while the face staring back at me in the mirror will shake her head as if to say, Who are we kidding?, I will smile back at her, hold up my tweezers, and answer, Me!
I've done pretty good, so far, with the Aging Thing. By "pretty good" I mean I weigh about what I did in college, I don't own a single pair of "mom jeans", and my hair is still longish. These are, to me, age-indicators and I've done my best to meet these standards -- at times surpassing them by wearing juvenile baseball jerseys, Converse knock-offs, and taking wacky dance classes with young college girls.
However, the person looking back at me in the mirror shrugs off these attempts at camouflage to reveal a very real, aging woman, and reminds me that there is a difference between youthful and youth. So, while I may be youthful in spirit and activity, I am not young.
Later, I caught a glimpse of myself again, this time in the visor mirror in the car, and I think I saw a gray nose hair. Now that sucks. I remember the day I looked down after showering and discovered my first gray pube. Who wants to have sex with THAT? I thought. Fortunately, my husband did. It's not broken, is it? I'm not sure he actually said that, but that was the sentiment. So I learned to live with it (now them). (An occasional Brazlian bikini wax doesn't hurt the situation, either. Ok, it hurts, but you know what I mean.)
Then I stopped dying my hair (on my head) and noticed the grays had spread upward. That's fine. Whatever. I was determined to embrace my grays for as long as possible. Besides, a shiny gray hair is like an accent... a sparkle, if you will... that draws the eye. I don't mind if a stray gray draws attention to my head. (Or my hoochie, for that matter.)
But my nose? No. This cannot be.
So, tonight I'll spend a little quiet time alone in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers. Mommy needs her privacy. Go away. No, you may not watch! And while the face staring back at me in the mirror will shake her head as if to say, Who are we kidding?, I will smile back at her, hold up my tweezers, and answer, Me!
Comments
But hey, at least everyone has to go through it eventually.
Good luck with the tweezers. Ouch!