I pulled off my sweater, turning away from the mirror, and my sunglasses slipped from my head, landing on the growing heap in the corner: a jacket, a stuffed handbag, a scarf, and my phone.
No need to glance in the mirror—I already knew what I would see.
As I leaned against the wall, I scratched at a dry patch on my hand. My back ached. Shifting on the balls of my feet, I wondered if I needed to use the bathroom again, but I decided to ignore the signals my bladder was sending. It hadn’t been long since my last trip.
“Alright, darling. Let’s see what we’ve got!” Her warmth radiated as she approached, her beautiful black hair framing her face. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled.
I turned toward her and managed a tired grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Even with a sideways glance, I could see the droop—like my body was finally surrendering to gravity, ready for a well-deserved break.
She assessed me without judgment or measuring tape. I think that’s the trick. “You’re definitely in the wrong size. We’re going to lift you up!” With a swirl of optimism, she dashed off.
Her words lifted my spirits, and I turned back to the mirror, feeling both skeptical and hopeful about the idea of “up!”
When did this happen? The aching back, tired feet, and hands that felt perpetually dry, despite endless applications of cream. My grandmother’s hands, knobby fingers adorned with age lines.
Did it happen overnight? Did the transformation sneak up on me during a quiet night between my 40th birthday last year and my 41st next week? I certainly don’t recall waking up one morning feeling different—older, sweatier, grayer. No amount of sleep seems to erase the raccoon-like eyes staring back at me. And is it just me, or do my breasts feel heavier and droopier every day?
I can’t pinpoint when I began to smell like a teenager who has forgotten their shower schedule, or when I realized I needed new bras because the old ones felt uncomfortably tight. Puberty for those of us in our forties? I might not remember the details of the first round, but I do know there’s little I can control and far too much I’m forced to let go of—like my sagging breasts.
“Okay, darling, what do you think of these?” She held out a selection of beautiful lace bras in cream, black, pale pink, and purple. The delicate colors took my breath away, but it was the wide satin straps and underwire that sealed the deal for me.
No matter how assertively time marches across my body, my breasts will not be victims in this hormonal skirmish.
With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, she unhooked, re-hooked, adjusted, and secured those bras onto my torso. She was gentle and kind, and soon we were laughing and gossiping like old friends.
My hair seems to turn gray when no one is watching, and every time I sneeze or laugh too hard… well, you know. It’s bewildering how this all happens, as if I’m not present for my own body. It’s unsettling to feel so out of control of my own physical self.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. I can do Kegels (I don’t, but I definitely should) to help me giggle and sneeze with youthful abandon. I can invest in a lovely new bra from someone who genuinely believes she can lift me up—a bra that fits comfortably, even at the underwire. And I can look down at my dry, wrinkled hands and smile, knowing I carry a piece of my grandmother with me.
I took one last look in the mirror, smiled genuinely, and gave my new friend a big hug of gratitude. I gathered my purchases and walked out of the store with my head and breasts held high.
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Summary:
This reflective piece explores the physical and emotional changes that accompany the transition from 40 to 41, likening it to a second puberty. The author humorously navigates the challenges of aging, including body changes and self-image, all while celebrating the importance of self-care and support. With a lighthearted tone, the narrative highlights the power of positivity and the necessity of embracing one’s evolving body.