Confessions of a 57-Year Old Chameleon

Getting older is scary. Incredibly scary. Despite all of the self-talk in which I try to convince myself that I am "fine like wine and better with age", I find myself talking a big lie. I talk the talk but sure as heck don't walk the walk.

Who am I trying to convince, and the bigger question is "Why?" Why do I care about what anyone thinks about me? That is the stuff made for the minds of teenage girls who starve themselves and paint their faces to look like twenty year olds. Yet I find myself, after all of these years, riding the conformity train with my wrinkle creams and hair coloring as I write poems about truth and being genuine. I revel in comments such as "You look like you're in your forties" (Yes...hiding gray hair does that). What if someone said "You look to be in your 50’s"? Would I feel insulted? Is being in my 50’s such an embarrassment?

I've got so much wisdom and experience packed into these 57 year old bones. I could write a book on that alone, but would anyone read it? How about a book called "Accepting Your Age", or "Dancing with the Gray" or "Ravishing With Wrinkles"? These titles make even me cringe because they are a reminder of something that we are taught to believe.  Getting old is a negative happening.

We grow up either looking back or hoping for better. We cover up and hide who we are. Rarely do we relish the moment. As a Southern girl, I was taught to be sweet, don't make waves, quietly submit, do what I must to fit in and be liked...and I have over and over again. I've been a chameleon most of my life. Being a quick change artist has taken me to some lofty places as well as straight into the gutter, and at the end of the day, I had no idea who the real me was.

We talk about being modern, liberated women at the same time we Botox and work our butts off for things that serve no purpose other than to make us feel like we have value. We rationalize all that we do to improve ourselves by telling ourselves it is fine if it makes us feel better about ourselves.  We try to impress our neighbors with all that we have as if those things add value to who we are as human beings.

But is it fine? Is it really? Because if we're to be totally honest with ourselves, we would realize that when we color and crème, have plastic surgery, and live for materialism, all we're doing is admitting that we are not quite good enough as we are. It's a desperate plea to the world, saying "See me. Notice me. Love me. I can be what you want me to be." Even scarier is that when we look in the mirror, we are making a desperate plea to ourselves, trying to convince ourselves we are worthy.

So here's a bit of honesty from me and this is scary to admit. I'm 57 years old. If I look to be in my 40's, it is because I color my hair every 2 or 3 weeks. My roots are gray, so if I decided not to color my hair, I would be all gray as soon as it grows out. I'm even plucking gray eyebrows. WOW...just writing that brought tears to my eyes, but it is freeing. My eyes are not so good these days. I wear reading glasses to read, bi-focals when on the computer, and regular glasses most other times. I'm overweight and have been since I was 11 or 12 years old, so chances are I'm never going to be slim or svelte. (Trying for 40 years with limited success has convinced me of that).

I am menopausal and I get moody and have those dreaded hot flashes. Every ache and pain I imagine to be cancer from all of the second hand smoke I have had to endure over the years. I worry more about getting sick and dying than I do about the latest skin rejuvenation product. I worry about what kind of legacy I will leave my children...because even with them, I wear a mask of conformity. Taking it off is scary, and a part of me wants to protect them by not looking my age. To them, gray hair is synonymous with "old age" and old age is synonymous with death. I don't want them to worry about losing me.

I don't care much about money or material things, and I never have. But my lack of it causes me to shut out those who do...for fear of what they will think. Not only that, I pretend to ride the money train rather than admit I just don't really care. All I want is enough to get by. My idea of perfection is a roof over my head, food to eat, and a bit of peace and quiet to do my writing. I'm a plain and simple kind of person.

Some days I want to keep on fooling myself and the world. I want to hang with the 30 year olds, party like a college student, and live with reckless abandon. Other days, I want to embrace 57. I want to enjoy where I am...as I am...and not worry what anybody else thinks. I want to slow down and relish the things that I truly enjoy...a good book, a sunset, a piece of music, solitude, a walk in nature, the sounds of my children laughing. And yes, the real me has a reckless, adventuresome streak as well. I just need to exercise it doing what I want to do.

My grandmother knew how to age gracefully. She was smart and sassy and didn't care what people thought. She spoke her mind. She was lovely and graceful, not given to conformity. I never saw her put on a pair of slacks in her life...despite the fact all of the other woman were wearing them. She loved wearing her dresses and her costume jewelry, and she didn't care who liked it or who didn't. She did not color her hair, but did go to the salon once a week to have it styled and to have a silver rinse put on her hair to enhance her gray (which was beautiful). She was flirtatious until the day she died, and would giggle like a schoolgirl. She took up smoking at age 70 just to see if she liked it...and she did. She embraced her age and did not let it hold her back from anything that she wanted to do. At the same time, the things she did were things she wanted to do...not things she felt she had to do as a means to fit in.

I can almost see her looking down from Heaven saying, "Oh my. What are you doing? Who are you trying to impress? Where's my granddaughter?"

Well, I'm here, Granny...trying to be find myself at 57...trying to be me.