As I peeled off my sweater, back turned to the mirror, my sunglasses slipped down from my head and landed amidst a chaotic pile of my belongings: jacket, disheveled handbag, scarf, and phone.
I didn’t need to check my reflection. I already knew what I would see.
Resting against the wall, I absentmindedly scratched a dry patch on my hand. My back was aching, and I shifted my weight, pondering if I needed to make yet another trip to the restroom. But I brushed aside the signals from my bladder. It had been less than an hour since my last visit.
“Alright, let’s see what we have here!” Her warmth was palpable, her stunning dark hair framing her face perfectly. She radiated positivity, her smile lighting up the room.
I returned her smile, albeit a weary one, as I caught a glimpse of my profile in the mirror. Even in my peripheral vision, I could see my features sagging as if they had decided to take a well-deserved break.
Without judgment, she assessed my figure. “You’re definitely not in the right size. Let’s get you sorted!” With that, she whisked away, carrying with her a sense of promise and hope.
Her words lifted my spirits, and I finally turned to face the mirror, feeling a mix of skepticism and excitement at the notion of being “up!”
When did this all start? The aching back, the tired feet, and my hands—now resembling my grandmother’s, long and knobbly, etched with lines. Did it all happen overnight? Somewhere between my 40th birthday last year and my upcoming 41st next week? I can’t recall waking up one morning and feeling dramatically different—older, sweatier, or grayer. Despite how much I sleep, the reflection staring back at me always resembles a weary raccoon. And my breasts? They seem to grow heavier and droopier with each passing day.
When did I start to notice that I smelled like a teenager between showers? Or decide I needed new bras because the old ones felt like they were made for someone else? It’s like a second puberty had snuck up on me! I don’t recall the specifics from my first experience, but I do know that there’s little to control and much to surrender, like my sagging bosom.
“Okay, what do you think about these?” she asked, her hands presenting beautifully delicate lace in cream, black, pale pink, and purple. The colors took my breath away, but it was the wide satin straps and supportive underwire that really caught my attention.
No matter how confidently time marches over my body, I refuse to let my breasts suffer in this hormonal battle.
With the precision of a seasoned professional, she hooked, adjusted, and secured the bras onto me, all while being gentle and understanding. Soon, we were laughing and sharing stories like old friends.
Gray hairs seem to sprout when no one is watching, and every sneeze or hearty laugh reminds me of my age. The changes are bewildering and baffling, leaving me feeling like a stranger in my own skin. But it doesn’t have to be this way. I could do Kegels (I should, really) to ensure I can giggle and sneeze without worry. I can treat myself to a stunning new bra from a friendly sales associate who is determined to lift my spirits. And as I glance down at my dry, aging hands, I can smile, feeling my grandmother’s presence guiding me.
I took one last look in the mirror, beamed a genuine smile, and wrapped my new friend in a grateful hug before gathering my purchases and walking out of the store with my head—and my confidence—held high.
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In summary, entering this second puberty can feel confusing and overwhelming, but it’s also a time to embrace new beginnings and self-care.
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