Getting Older

“I look in the mirror and I see I'm getting old,” a friend of mine has recently shared with me. “It’s a new and odd feeling.”

I knew very well what she was talking about. The feeling my friend had experienced might have been new to her, but it was not uncommon. Sooner or later, most of us, mortals, reach the point when we stop worrying about the imaginary flaws of our bodies, like fat ankles, or the easily correctible imperfections, like a few extra pounds we put on through the winter. Suddenly, we start noticing the "real" and unfixable (unless with a little nip and tuck) problems. Our skin, once smooth and snug, suddenly becomes blotchy and baggy. Our jawline is gone and there is no diet or exercise to bring the firmness back to our arms. It looks like we have reached a point of no return. Is it all downhill from there?

In the era when youthful looks are glorified and promoted, it is easy to believe that our lives are over with the first wrinkles on our face and first grey strands in our locks. But are they?

In many ways, our lives are like the four seasons of the year. Between the hopeful spring and the dead of winter, there are two full seasons: the relaxing summer, the time of ripening, and the colourful fall, the time of gathering. Just like every season can be beautiful, every phase of our lives can be meaningful and fulfilling.

Why worry about our changing skin? Isn’t it just a sign that the seasons are changing? Shouldn't we feel lucky we can live through them all?

I didn't say any of that to my friend. Instead, I sent her a poem that I had written when I first started contemplating the signs of aging. Looking back, why was I even thinking about it at that age?!

***

I'm thirty something and quite alright.

If only I could erase those

wrinkles around my eyes...

I wouldn’t even bother,

for why and how

would I know which ones

came from laughing to tears

and which ones were born in pain,

when I cried. Besides,

if I were to die

tomorrow,

wouldn’t it be quite a lie

to lie in my coffin

like a doll in the box,

with me skin so impeccably suave,

as if I have never lived.

But I have, haven’t I?