A Note On Aging

The other day after a shower and the requisite age-appropriate slathering of aides de beaute, I was kneeling down talking to Tommy. Like any other 2 1/2 year old, he says a number of hurtful things to me on a daily basis. He was standing there, staring intently at my face when he very gravely remarked "Mommy scratch. Scratch. Oowie. Mommy scratch face. Ouchie Wa Wa." Yeah, I realized he hadn't found a scratch on my face, but rather he was noticing a smile line. I then made a mental note to stop smiling.

Last month I "celebrated" yet another birthday. Number 37 went down okay I guess, if only because I wasn't turning 38, or 40 for that matter. Sure, I find comfort in remembering that Pie will be turning 43 in May and I won't, but that line of thinking can only take a gal so far. Thirty-seven is no picnic, because unlike earlier unpalatable numbers--such as the big 3-0--this one is accompanied by scientific evidence that I am getting older. I hear people say ridiculous things like "age is just a number", but the truth is a bit longer and much more depressing. The full sentiment goes like this "age is just a number of things that start to look bad the older you get". Lines around the eyes. Cracked, hardened heels that remind one of Mother. The first hint of a budding neck wattle. Grey hairs.

(Oh! Those grey hairs!! I have been a unrepentant grey-hair-plucker for several years now, but not without a price. My eyes always go crossed in an attempt to see what I am yanking out by the roots at the top of my head and I am afraid that I am going to do permanent damage to them. My eyes, that is. I could care less about the plucked hairs. Now, I know that plucking out all these hairs is supposedly a bad idea. Something about going bald. But judging by the ever-luxuriant crop of eyebrows crawling across my forehead, I'm pretty confident that WHATEVER I pluck will quickly grow back. Pretty sure about that. And my dark hair only seems to set the grey ones off to prominent effect. I used to wish my hair was a different color, something less brown, if you will. Well, now that it is changing of its own accord I find myself very nostalgic for that old brown. The idea of coloring it now seems rather sad and pathetic.)

Since I can't keep from getting older I have decided that the only way to beat the system is to look younger than my years, no matter how old I get. The way I figure it, if I look 64 at 69, I win. Personally, I have never understood why women lie younger rather than older. What kind of a joke is that? We wouldn't be nearly as impressed with Madonna's looks if we knew she was actually turning 40 rather than 50. (Okay, well maybe we would, because she looks pretty darn amazing, but I don't even like her or want to imitate her in any way so why did I even bring her up? You know she's had plenty of work done, regardless.)

Taking this all into consideration is why last month when I stood up to be serenaded by all those in Jr. Primary (You've had a birthday, SHOUT HURRAY!), I proudly told the group that I was turning 47. Because I would rather have people, even little 4 year old people, thinking I looked like an amazing 47 than a most pathetic 27.