Lucy Reflects

I’m in my late thirties, quickly approaching the big 4-0. I’m a mother to two wonderful children and I have the best husband. I really couldn’t ask for anything more. But truth be told, there were a few things I didn’t prepare myself for as I aged gracefully.

I recall turning about 36 years old and having this moment of clarity where I just fell into a good place, balancing family life, work, home and marriage. I stopped putting so much pressure on myself to be perfect. I stopped worrying so much about the little things. But deep down, there were a few physical changes that I wasn’t quite ready for when it came to the aging process. It was almost like puberty all over again, experiencing changes I wasn’t willing to accept, and I was getting pretty cranky about it all.

My hair began to grey. My slim figure that could handle all the Oreos, Slim Jim sticks, gummies and wine it wanted to, started to gather those little gems into my belly and form a bulge. My boobs from having kids weren’t in the mood to compete with my new belly and seemed to cave under pressure. I thought I was finished breaking out but my face had other plans and I woke up with pimples worse than when I was a teen. I obsessed over them in the mirror, cursing to myself about how it wasn’t fair that I had grey hair and pimples. Because, well, that’s horse shit.

In an attempt to rid myself of pimples by obsessing over them, I only made it worse. I always had a plan to explain my face, “I was bit by a spider, shot in the face, bit by a vampire, ran into a branch,” anything that wasn’t “It’s a huge zit. And yes I’m 38 and greying at the same time.”

Introduce the hairs. God forbid, they show up in places no one can see. Nope. They showed up on my face. I spend hours plucking while kids are in the tub, thinking I got every last stubborn hair until I stepped foot in the car and take a look in the mirror in the natural light. And there it is. A long hair proudly sticking straight up for the world to see. And I forgot my tweezers.

I have a love-hate relationship with tweezers. I rely on them more then I’d like to admit. They are a part of my family. I take care of them and love them. I am disappointed in them when they can’t do the job, threatening to replace them with someone who’s better.

I began dying my hair, using Clearasil, sucking in my belly or wearing big shirts and buying padded bras. I carried my favorite tweezers everywhere I went.

Recently at work, two men about my age, came into the bar after a day of golfing. One said to me, “My god, you don’t have a single grey hair.” The other lamented that he and his girlfriend were “learning how to deal with her wrinkles.” Both were struggling with the aging process much more than I was, mostly focusing on their “lucky ladies” who they expected to be immune to imperfections.

OK. Let’s stop right there.

If my husband EVER talks publicly about my imperfections, I’ll sock him hard and leave him for Jimmy Fallon.

I may be 38, but I still feel like a kid. I’ve packed my kids up for numerous adventures, taking them to concerts, hiking, sailing – giving them the best life I can imagine. And let me tell you, all that other aging crap pales in comparison to those memories.

If there was anything I learned from that night from my new distraught and unrealistic golfing friends, it was to embrace change. Surround yourself with those who do as well. If I look like I was shot in the face, have facial hair, turn my neck and pull a muscle, don’t have the perfect tan, who really cares? It’s more important to live life to the fullest and as cliché as that sounds, it’s true. And if I don’t keep up with dying, plucking, cleansing and bellies, does anyone really care? Are the people who are important to me even noticing?

Let’s stop pretending we’re chiseled to be a certain way. Let’s embrace the imperfections, because if we don’t we’re likely to allow them to make us miserable. Do I try to fix these imperfections? Sure, but if I don’t get to it sometimes, that’s ok too.

Our adventures, our memories, will always speak volumes. No one is ever going to remember you for having tiny hairs on your face, or grey hairs, or a little belly, they’ll remember you for the legacy you created. And that’s what matters.

Leave us a comment, what are your thoughts on aging? Do you allow it to bother you? Do you rely on tweezers like I do?