As I emerge from the shower, I’m taken aback by the stranger in the mirror. Typically, my reflection is accompanied by a tiny person, about three feet tall, shoving snacks in my face while I towel off on the bathroom floor. But this? This is something else entirely. The mirror is a bit foggy, yet the reflection is crystal clear. Who is this person? Here I am, just three weeks shy of turning 39, and I can’t help but wonder who came up with the idea that 39 is the new 29. I can only imagine it was some guy in his 70s, probably lounging on a beach somewhere.
Oh, 29—what a time! I vividly recall that age and can confidently say my breasts didn’t look like they were in a heated dispute, trying to escape each other. I never had to shift them to put on deodorant. Summoning my courage, I step closer to the mirror and wipe away the steam. What in the world? Hair on my face? Seriously? Why do I need to pluck my face? I wish I were a chicken—plucking all those feathers would leave me bare. I’ll have to look that up later but maybe I should jot it down on a Post-It. Wait, I’ll just grab some toilet paper and my mascara.
Alright, let’s count. One, two, three, four, five chin hairs. Great, I might wake up tomorrow looking like a hermit. “In sickness and in health”? How about when your wife has a beard, and it’s not her fault? One of these hairs is pitch black, utterly confusing. And what’s this? Gray hair? I swear I went to bed with my usual blonde locks. What gives?
And these wrinkles—seriously? I’m Irish; I used to slather sunscreen like it was my job. I was the palest kid around, and yet here I am, sporting lines on my face. Probably from all that smiling. Why was I so cheerful? Ha! Stop chuckling; that will only create more lines.
Oh, let’s take a peek at my stomach. Yikes! What happened here? Right, two beautiful babies weighing in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. and 8 lbs. 10 oz. Totally worth it, but what bathing suit am I going to wear this summer? It’s either one that barely covers anything or a ridiculous dancing bear costume. Who designs these things? I’m betting they’re all men in their 70s. They say, “Wear what makes you comfortable,” but those new swimsuits that look like permanent wedgies? Yeah, comfort is not the vibe. I should probably search for bathing suits suitable for nearly-40 moms. I can already see that dancing bear costume popping up!
Ugh, I’m exhausted. Why am I so tired?
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are you almost done? We’re hungry and need help with a 600-piece puzzle. Also, we may have overflowed the sink, and the dog is laying in the water.”
Right! Time to face the chaos. But you know what? I adore my eyes. They’ve witnessed the birth of my children and the beauty of life. So what if I don’t look 29? I’m ready for 39! It’ll be filled with fresh adventures.
“Mommy, look! We drew a rainbow on the wall with our new markers!”
“I can see that, sweetie. Right here.” Ugh.
In conclusion, embracing aging can be a wild ride. From unexpected mirror reflections to the chaos of motherhood, every moment is a treasure—even if it comes with a side of chin hairs.