By: Laura Jennings
Updated: Oct. 7, 2023
Originally Published: Aug. 2, 2008
Aging—it’s a topic that often catches us off guard. Sure, we see the signs: those delicate lines around the eyes, the deepening grooves on our foreheads. I’ve got the photographs to verify the changes year by year. As I leaned closer to the mirror, I watched the transformation unfold. This wasn’t exactly a shock since every skincare commercial since forever has been warning me about aging, suggesting that a simple bottle of lotion could turn back the clock.
But what about that C-section scar that seems to frown more with each passing year? Or the sagging skin that hangs over areas it never used to? No one prepares you for these surprises. I never took photos of my knees when they were youthful and firm. Just the other day, I came across an old picture of myself crossing a finish line fifteen years ago—no wrinkles, no sagging. It hit me that my knees didn’t always resemble some crumpled fabric left in the corner of a closet.
There’s a lot to ponder about my body now. What did my midsection look like in downward dog before it became a drooping bloodhound? Surely I would’ve remembered if my belly had jowls at 20. But back then, I was too busy worrying about whether my stomach resembled a ripe peach—because, naturally, that’s a terrible thing to have. I probably thought collagen was something old folks used. Little did I know that it was the precious beaded necklace of youth that slipped away the day I turned 42, scattering like pearls lost beneath the bed.
I’ve tried to fight against the relentless passage of time. I do Pilates; I run—though now I run less due to tendonitis and plantar fasciitis. Ironically, WebMD labels plantar fasciitis as a condition for older, heavier individuals. I mean, I love everyone, regardless of their size, but if I’ve battled osteopenia while weighing less than 120 pounds for most of my life, I’d like a re-do, please.
It’s not that I want to return to that younger version of myself—the one who resented her peachy belly or lacked confidence in her youthful face. Those days feel like slightly embarrassing relatives I’d rather avoid at Thanksgiving. I recognize them, yet I wouldn’t choose to sit next to them.
But this newer version of me? The one who is wiser, stronger, and more empowered? I just wish parts of her wouldn’t keep drooping and sagging like forgotten items in a trunk waiting for a mechanic’s visit.
Yesterday, I had my annual mammogram. The nurse, bless her, pinched my slightly sagging breasts between two plates of glass, tightening the vice grip until I nearly gasped. “Are you okay?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to the sweat trickling down my back. I realized then that these breasts could be the next to go, adding another layer of wear to this aging body that started out as a perfect baby.
Aging is part of life; we transform, win races, nurture our children, and cultivate love. We create art, build homes, and bake Pinterest-worthy cakes for our kids. As our inner selves flourish and shine brighter each year, it’s only natural that our outer selves become a little more worn and weathered. The old saying comes to mind: “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” (Thank you, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.)
I’m only halfway through this journey, I hope. As the years roll on, there will be countless injuries and changes to document if I’m fortunate enough. So now is the time to embrace the body I have—flabby arms or not, the sagging breasts, the dimpled thighs that can still manage to run a bit, and those knees that are well on their way to becoming full-on crepe legs. She may not be a sight to behold, but she’s mine.
“Are you okay?” the nurse asked again.
“Sure,” I replied through clenched lips. “Sure. I’m okay.”
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In summary, aging may bring its challenges, but it also presents an opportunity for self-acceptance and appreciation. Embrace the changes, love your body, and cherish the journey.
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