“Did you see that woman over there?” my husband asked.
I turned my head and tried to subtly glance over to the woman he was referring to. Her back was against me, but from behind she looked amazing. Slim, toned and curvy in all the right places. Then she turned her head and I gasped.
Her face looked like the crypt-keeper. Pale and taught ghostly white skin was interrupted by strangely exaggerated eyes turned up at the corners. Her lips were huge and plumped full and it was obvious she had undergone multiple cosmetic procedures to the point of resembling a freakish Michael Jackson wannabe.
I shuddered. Tim smiled at me, “I’m glad you aren’t’ afraid of aging and you would never do anything drastic like that.”
“Hey now,” I said. “She looks pretty good for a hundred.”
Tim laughed and walked off to lift weights. But the scary lady didn’t leave my mind.
I secretly stole a few more glances and then thought about my own insecurities regarding getting old. Certainly it’s inevitable and a natural part of life, so why the resistance, the flat-out denial by some folks to step up to the plate and surrender to gravity?
There are certain parts of getting older which I adore. My emotions no longer rule my heart, wisdom has snuck up on me after a multitude of hard knock lessons, and I have an appreciation for relationships and life, like never before. I have more confidence in my identity, my voice and don’t really care if people like me or even agree with me anymore.
But the parts I don’t like are the parts which resonate with the plastic gym lady. I want to be pretty and in a world and culture that reveres youth, looking old and haggard is less desirable. I don’t like the weird little age spots appearing on my body, the aches and pains that seem to appear out of the blue after thirty-five, and my metabolism, which is getting slower by the day. These things make me long for my eternal body.
One component of aging that sometimes makes it easier or harder depending on the season, is the personal expectations or goals I place on myself for age thresholds.
Twenty-five-married and college degree-√
Thirty five-have kids-√
Forty-be a successful writer (working on that one)
Fifty-five-grandma-TBD
As I hit the birthdays with my goals checked off, I feel better about myself. But the year I hit thirty-three and found myself a divorced, single mom, getting older didn’t feel so good. In fact, the ache was deep and I felt somehow inadequate. Happy Birthday didn’t feel so happy that year.
I hear the pain in my friends voices when another year passes by without a husband or a child. It’s the same hurt-another year slipping by and another reminder of unfulfilled dreams.
Isaiah once said, “The flowers fade and the grass withers, but the word of our God will stand forever.”
I know in life there will be good years and not so good years, but the years will come, no matter how I try to halt the ravages of too much sun and the gravitational pull on my behind.
But when I keep an eternal perspective and focus my eyes on the road before me, ageing isn’t such a scary place. If anything, it’s just one step closer to Jesus.
Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
