How to Not Act Your Age, Even With Middle-Age Woman Face

I don’t know when it happened.

It didn’t so much as creep up on me as it did chase me down and toss an ice cube down my back. Well, maybe not quite that alarming; more like a smooth wave lazily rolling over me.  The SO and I were having a conversation about something or another and during which, he said  “Honey, you’re a 45 year old woman.”
And that’s when it reached out and caressed me; that slow, lazy wave of  Holy. Shit.  I AM a 45 year old woman. Forty. Five.   Well goddam.  Like, seriously.. . god-DAYUM!
I actually stopped in mid speak, lips slightly open ready to share my thoughts, instead I paused, cocked my head to the side and took a mental assessment.  Previous topic forgotten; I evaluated.  I certainly didn’t feel like I was forty-five.

That’s where it began, right there.

I can’t stop thinking about it. Age has never been a ‘thing’ with me. I’m growing older, so what.  I mean, sure I colour my hair when I see the light blonde highlights rearing their ugly roots. I make sure to take my multi-vitamin daily and drink my milk.  However, I don’t wear makeup to cover the wrinkles or have a ‘night regimen’ or whatever to stave them off. In fact, short of washing my face with soap and using the occasional lotion when I notice dry skin, it pretty much just does what it does.  Which I’ve noticed lately is wrinkle, get brown spots and sprout the occasional hair (read: several of the vile buggers that show up ever so very prominently,  especially on my chin and neck,  when the sun is shining just right or under intense light,– but that’s a topic for another time; wicked little bastards.)

It was like reality slapped me in the face.

I was getting my roots tamed last week and as I sat in the chair, waiting for the colour to marinate or whatever it does under all that foil, I had a good, long look in the mirror. The face looking back at me was my sister’s (sorry sis, I love you!)  The one I noticed years ago when she was in her 40s. (Heh)!  The same face I remember seeing on my mom years before that, when she was my age (right about the time she put a hex on me concerning those chin hairs).  It was middle-age woman face.  When the hell had that happened?  It’s not like I don’t look at my own face in the mirror every single day. But it’s usually a quick glance while brushing my teeth or combing my hair. I’ve never had time to just sit and stare. Which is what I did, sitting in that chair.
I really took in my face, with all its lines and imperfections and *ahem* age-spots and chin hairs. I am a middle-aged woman. I have middle-aged friends. Leaning in closer, (‘cause you know, I didn’t have my glasses on) I have middle-age woman face.

I’m pretty certain I missed a few or 10 years. Maybe even 15. How could I be middle-aged?

I’ve been thinking of nothing else, since. Thinking back over the years about my life and the routes I’ve taken, the pathways and the alleyways.  The last five years have been the oddest of them all; a lot of discovery went on that explained some stuff. With more stuff yet to be explained, I’m sure.

So. Middle-age. Here you are. You kinda snuck up on me. Not like I was expecting fanfare or a parade. I guess I thought there would be a sign. Like, I’d go all matronly or something. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?  I guess, if this is what I’m to face now, bring it on. I’ve made it this far.

Well, I’m off. But not running, ‘cause stuff jiggles.



Definitions and other explanatory paraphernalia:

SO ~ Significant Other – means the hubs.



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