As the title suggests, I'm going to talk about age today. Yeah, Monday's aren't great for that topic, but we CAN survive it. I will admit to being of "A Certain Age" - which is the French way of saying I'm someplace in between 45 and the obituary column. (Vive La France.)
I don't usually pay much attention to it, unless I happen to get into one of "those" conversations with my mother. The one that goes something like... "Dear, don't you think your hair's a bit long for a woman your age?" ... or... "You're showing a lot of cleavage for a woman your age, dear." Now, my mom is a wonderful woman. She is still, however, solidly in the Buckingham Palace mindset when it comes to appearance/age. I think she hopes to see me in a permed short "do" wearing a tasteful twinset and pearls.
Sorry, mom, ain't gonna happen. As far as the hair thing goes? My initial response is... "Hell yeah, I need long hair. What else is hubby gonna grab when he's riding me doggy style?" Okay, not really usable when talking to one's mother. And the cleavage - "No, I don't think I'm showing too much. My nipples are hidden, aren't they?" Also not terribly appropriate for daugher/mother discussions. I could answer these points individually, but it won't help much. Because mom doesn't understand that for so many of us these days, age is mind over matter. We don't mind, so it don't matter.
Sure, we look in the mirror on some Mondays and wonder what the hell happened. But there are other days when we take a look at a vibrant face, full of experience, wisdom and the humor to deal with it all. I think women should be labeled "ripe", not mature. I don't feel mature. I feel ripe - ripe for fun, ripe for laughter (and yes, ripe for a nap now and again, I'll confess. LOL) We have years behind us that have enriched us and made us who we are right now. We know more about sex than half the experts and have the medications to ease the cramped muscles which occasionally result. Are we gorgeous? Depends on your point of view. My point of view says "don't stand me next to a Victoria's secret model and I can shoot for "elegant", if not gorgeous." That works just fine for me.
I truly believe that surviving Mondays has a lot to do with how we perceive ourselves. I've never been able to convince Mom that a scrawl on a calendar has NOTHING to do with age. That long hair works for me. That cleavage, when displayed appropriately, is an excellent distraction away from the other bits I don't want noticed. I love my Mom and she loves me in spite of the hair and the tits. So we don't always see eye-to-eye on appearance and behavior. (RT convention photos of me cuddling a variety of cover models - well, I think she's still hyperventilating over those! LOL) She views me as her eldest daughter. Her grown-up daughter. The mother of her college-aged grandson. I'm all those things. But those aren't notches on the tightening belt of age. They're part and parcel of a chunk of ripe cheese that's sitting happily alongside a bevy of other ripe cheeses and enjoying life to the fullest whenever possible.
So this Monday, I will groom my long hair, tuck my girls into my engineered marvel of a bra and strut my stuff around my house. (Okay, covered by layers of warm clothing, but you get the idea.) How old we are isn't measured by a calendar on a fridge. It's measured by the life in our hearts. It's measured by the passion in our souls not the number of times we have to get the grey out of our hair. Somedays I feel like I'm a hundred-and-two. Other days - I'm twelve. I'm a woman of a "certain age" - I'm a HUSSY - and I have long hair.
If you're a "ripe cheese" or heading that way, let me know how YOU deal with the whole thing? I'd love to hear!!!
6 comments:
Vive La France, indeed! Even if we invented the soap bars and don't use it, still, vive la France! :)
If I had cleavage, I would GO THERE, baby! But I don't, so I compensate by bleaching my hair platinum, which makes me feel good about myself. For no reason at all.
It must be the bleaching agents...
Age? Definitely a state of mind. I try to think of it in the words my honey used recently when I asked "do you think I look old as dirt?"
His response: "deliciously matured with a full bodied flavor that packs a hellava punch." Woo baby, gotta love a sweet-talking man.
But seriously,why worry that all those wonderful life experiences show on our faces and that the gray is making an excellent stab at ovecoming all other color in our hair? We're more than the package that contains us. Like you said, Sahara, it's the passion of our souls, the energy of our spirits that make us fascinating, desirable women.
And oh my, we all have mothers who like to make us feel so marvelous about our "certain age". Like mine: "You're wearing THAT?" or "You know you'd look ten years younger if you cut your hair." or my favorite ... "Is is really appropriate for a woman YOUR age to (fill in the blank)" LOL, gotta love a caring mom, eh?
Me? I say, here I am, warts and all, a happy, healthy Hussy who's enjoying life, love and all the sensual pleasures and erotic adventures that come my way. Old? Well let me quote Grannie:
"Just because there's snow on the roof, it don't mean there ain't fire in the furnace."
Happy Monday!!
Ripe cheese goes great with aged wine.
For anyone feeling the years - consider the alternative to aging.
Now, doesn't it feels darn good to live another day, another year?
Attitude! That is the key to aging well! The I don't give a damn attitude really works well. Try it... you'll like it! (g)
I agree with the rest of you hussies, but I look at it slightly differently--or not at all. I really don't spend a whole lot of time thinking about my age. In fact, not that long ago someone asked how old I was and I had to do the math and calculate the difference between this year and my birth year.
I just don't think of myself as being any certain age and still have the same spirit I always did. Who I am inside doesn't change as I grow older and if people don't take the time to look past the laugh lines to the person within then what they think doesn't matter anyway.
In may ways I still consider myself to be a child, learning and growing while refusing to grow up and become "serious". That's why my mother likes to ask, "Will you ever grow up and get serious?" Uh, no. Why should I? I'm having fun being who I am. Why change?
OMG, Nic, are we twins? LOL. I'm always having to do the math when someone asks my age or my husband's or anyone other than my daughter.
I once thought I was 32 years old for almost 5 years and so did my husband. We were shocked when I realized I was really 37. Numbers have never been important to me except when it comes to my bank statements. You are a hussy after my own heart!
I don't give age any thought, I live for the moment.
About 15 years ago DH and I agreed to try new passions in and out of the bedroom. It was the best thing we ever did.
Him @5o and me@40, we enjoy each other and life.
No mind you we are not talking sex every night.
It is the little things are well that makes me feel young.
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