Aging—what a surprise, right? Sure, some signs are obvious. Those tiny crow’s feet and the deepening lines on my forehead? Yeah, I’ve been watching those develop year after year, thanks to the mirror. The beauty industry has been warning me since forever about it, promising that a $5 bottle of some miracle lotion could help.
But the real shocker? My C-section scar seems to be frowning more each year. And that loose flap of skin, well, it’s taken on a life of its own! Honestly, nobody takes selfies of their knees when they’re young and perky. Just yesterday, I found an old photo of myself crossing a finish line fifteen years ago—no wrinkles, no sagging. I had completely forgotten that my knees used to look like anything but a crumpled piece of fabric.
So many body parts have me questioning their former glory. What did you look like in downward dog, you old bloodhound of a midsection? I mean, I’d like to think I would have remembered if my belly had jowls at 20. Back then, I was too busy fretting over my “peach-like” appearance. Who knew that I’d one day long for that youthful, soft skin? Collagen, I thought, existed only in some old folks’ soap. Little did I know, it was the very essence of youth that slipped away from me the day I turned 42, scattering like beads across the floor, never to be found again.
And it’s not that I’m neglectful about self-care. I do Pilates; I run—just not as far anymore thanks to tendonitis and plantar fasciitis. How is that fair? I’ve always been on the lighter side of the scale, but now I’m dealing with issues that seem reserved for “heavy” folks. I mean, come on! If I’m facing osteopenia after spending a lifetime under 120 pounds, can’t I get a do-over?
Yet, I’m not pining for that girl I used to be—the one who despised her “peach belly,” the twenty-something with no confidence. Those versions of me are like distant relatives that I wouldn’t want sitting next to me at Thanksgiving dinner. But this new me? A more self-assured, empowered version? I just wish some parts of her didn’t keep drooping and sagging, like old junk in the trunk heading to the mechanic.
Yesterday, I had my yearly mammogram. The nurse, bless her heart, squeezed my sagging boobs between two plates of glass while I gripped the machine like it was a lifeline. “Are you okay?” she asked, oblivious to my discomfort. I realized those boobs might be the next to go, just another addition to my aging body, which was once a tiny perfect baby but is now gradually losing its luster.
Life is a journey, and we accomplish so much—raising kids, creating art, and whipping up Pinterest-worthy birthday cakes. So, it makes sense that while our souls expand and shine brighter, our bodies may get a bit more dented and worn. That classic adage about loving who’s around resonates deeply. If you can’t be with the one you love, honey, embrace the one you’ve got.
I’m not at the end yet—hopefully, I’m only halfway to that point where my body completely gives in. As the years roll on, I’ll collect more bumps and bruises, but maybe it’s about time I start loving the one I’m with: the strong arms, the sagging boobs, and the dimply thighs that can still carry me forward. She may not be stunning, but she’s mine.
“Are you okay?” the nurse repeated.
“Sure,” I managed to say through clenched teeth. “I’m okay.”
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In conclusion, aging is a natural part of life that we should embrace. We may collect scars and sagging skin, but the strength and wisdom we gain along the way make the journey worthwhile. So, let’s celebrate the bodies we have now, imperfections and all.