On the topic of aging gracefully...

"I am a glistening goddess"

This is what I tell myself as I stand in the mirror, inspecting my face with surgical precision. I don’t quite buy it, but I’m saying it, “I AM A GLISTENING GODDESS!”

I'm trying this thing where I say nice things to myself in an effort to change my belief systems and neural pathways (there's a lot of faulty programming in there I'm trying to rewire). And between repeating seemingly outlandish mantras and years of therapy, it seems to be working. For now.

But as I’m repeating these words to myself, I’m trying not to panic at the unfamiliar reflection looking back at me.

Who is she?

A vaguely familiar stranger. An avatar from the future is now trapped in my medicine cabinet mirror. A gaussian blur. She's me, but not ME. She's not the me I'm used to seeing. She just showed up one day, uninvited and definitely unannounced.

I realized recently that growing up I never pictured myself getting “old.” Maybe that’s why I have no references for the lady that’s shown up in my mirror. I never imagined myself in ages, just scenarios: my first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first career. According to my adolescent imagination, all of this seemed to happen at 18. Truth be told I’ve felt 30 years old my entire life. This seems to be a common feeling among Gen X’ers, probably because we were all feral latchkey kids being raised by MTV.

My spirit? She’s been 30 all along. It’s just my meat suit that’s changed throughout the years. This is probably why my body, face, and hair at 30 was at its prime. Peak hotness. Everything clicked. Aging past 30ish never entered my mind. I never daydreamed about watching children grow up or growing old surrounded by grandchildren in a rocking chair on a porch, which seems to be every human’s goalpost, according to the movies. But me? I never ever thought about getting old because, growing up, I thought old people were sad and alone, and who wants to daydream about being sad and alone?

I remember visiting my great-grandmother at her apartment when I was like 8 or 9 years old, seeing her dressed in her best clothes to entertain company, her frail body draped with porcelain-like sheaths of skin and dusty garments. Sitting in her burgundy taffeta wallpapered room, sitting on the edge of her unmade bed, in a forgotten place in some forgotten building somewhere. The room smelled of powder and stale air—the scent of polite decay. The light in the hallway always flickering. That place was terrifying to me as a kid.

I knew then what I deeply fear now, that aging past a certain point is a sad and lonely end. This is probably why I'm fascinated with the concept of dignified end-of-life solutions, which are only legal in a few places in the world, like The Netherlands and Colombia. If I had the means, the will, the ambition, and the legal runway, I’d create a 5-star Death Spa: a resort where you can check in, enjoy a luxury week of pampering and goodbye visits, then check out (of life). I’m talking Euthanasia, but make it White Lotus. It's a work in progress. (But it's registered IP, so back off, Mike White, unless you want to collaborate. Then, of course, slide into my DMs, and let's chat; I have LOTS of ideas.)

Back to old people...

As a kid, I watched two great-grandmothers reach 100 years old, blowing out candles in a nursing home through borrowed teeth.

I watched my 53-year-old grandmother take her hair off in front of me to reveal a bald head ravaged by the effects of Chemo.

I saw my grandfather, who wore pants up to his nipples and bought me board games, follow his beloved to the grave only a year or two later.

Being old has never ever seemed appealing. Maybe that's why I never pictured myself there. And now I'm woefully unprepared for what I see before me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not likening myself to a 100-year-old woman or a cancer patient. I know I'm still hot! I have gorgeous, genetically-blessed skin, cheekbones for days, and a smile that disarms.

People call me a vampire, and I devour that shit. If all it took were drinking the blood of a virgin or two to stay young, believe me, I’d be hitting up open mics across this city and having the incels for dinner, but unfortunately, time will have its way with my mere mortal ass no matter what. (Unless you’re a vampire and want to turn me in which case please also slide into my DM’s)

Look, I swear that I’m fully aware “I look great for my age.” But also...where are my eyebrows going? Why is that eyelid so droopy? Have my lips gotten thinner? Are those jowls? Is that a gray chin hair? Is this gua-sha even working?!

I am not prepared.

Even though I've had four decades to prepare, it still seems sudden. All the changes came at once, and nobody tells you that. NOBODY TELLS YOU THAT, SO I’M TELLING YOU THAT. One day, you're a pretty young thing, and the next day, you’re visiting yourself from the future, and your nighttime routine will go from brushing your teeth and going to bed WITH YOUR MAKEUP ON to a 25-step regimen that takes no less than 45 minutes and costs as much as the monthly payment on a Kia Sorrento.

I think it’s important to remember that you can actually be grateful for what you have and still feel scared, disappointed, and resentful about the things you have no control over, like aging. They are not mutually exclusive concepts. Aging, especially for women, is a wild ride, and for now, I’m trying to ride it bareback. I’m trying to “age gracefully” while kicking and screaming on the inside. I’m trying to see how long I can go “au naturale” before I venture into Botox and other beautification aids. At the moment, I'm working with flax seed masks and serums. We'll see how that goes; so far, so good.

Another thing they don't tell you, which is never spoken about in a fun and cool way, is how bloated you'll get. Jesus Christ in the Heavens—what in the actual fuck? I’m on like 12 supplements a day to fix this crap—both homeopathic and Instagram-inflluenced. It's outrageous. Has this always been the case, or is it just an American thing? Is this the vaccine? Is this years of fad diets and processed foods, or is this the factory-setting bloatation device that deploys when a woman hits 42? Personally, I think it’s rude that I have to carry this extra 10% of body fat to nourish a baby I never plan to have. I think once you make the decision that you don’t want kids, you should be able to give the fat BACK.

Is this sexy to talk about? No.

Does someone need to talk about these issues and concerns openly so that countless women facing the profound blunt-force trauma of aging can find solace in shared experiences and feel less isolated? Probably.

Here's my plan: I will do everything in my power to shine from within. Adjust my energy, think good thoughts, laugh at my worries, drink more water, and walk around like I'm a golden goddess with the confidence of a mediocre white man. I'm going to hone my inner thoughts with precision. I'm going shine so bright; all anyone can see is a beam of light, not the tiny markings of time I'm wrestling with.

BUT—

It’s going to be messy. Because I'm also going to kick, scream, make weird jokes, feel, process, and work through all the discomfort aging brings, with honesty. It will be raw, clumsy, and defiant. And that’s Ok. All of it is good. All of it is human. All of it is me in the face of aging gracefully.

xo