I moisturized my toes last night.
Perhaps like you, I don’t give much thought to the care of my feet or toes, but as I was preparing for bed last night, Creme de Corps in hand, I figured why not. They’re looking a little … well, wrinkly.
Last week a friend came by, and due to some sudden weight loss and new “in our 50s” naked time happening, she’s concerned about the crepey-ness of her belly skin. (Hmm, I don’t usually moisturize my belly either!)
Reading Druckerman’s There Are No Grown-Ups, I reflect on the French ideology summed up as, “Être bien dans sa peau” — To be good in one’s skin. To feel comfortable, confident, at any age.
I’ve picked up copies of More magazine, geared toward women over 40, for a decade.
My first memoir was Anne Kreamer’s Going Gray: What I Learned about Beauty, Sex, Work, Motherhood, Authenticity, and Everything Else That Really Matters.
To say I’ve had my eye on how to age in a way that feels humble, appreciative, and graceful would be accurate. To say I still fall into thought-traps about body image would also be accurate!
My friend is not scared of her aging, but aware that it’s different. I’m aware I can’t eat dessert every day without seeing it on my body the next. I’m aware there are more lines, more crepes, more gray on the lady carpet.
I’m aware of an excitement, too. What will it be like next? What new feature will I notice? I like to age. It’s a constant, every-day science experiment! (And as a cancer survivor, it feels like a blessing to “get to” age and discover at all.)
Aging is ultimately something I can’t choose to do. But it is something I can choose how I relate to.
Which is why I’ve gravitated toward learning from others what it’s like for them, their experience and their coming to grips. Like most things in life, it’s all a matter of perspective.
I enjoyed massaging cream into my toes last night. I liked paying minute attention to who and how my body is, this lifelong partner, passenger, and driver. This body houses my entire ability to be here, and I want to witness it with awe.
(And, sure, I wish my butt held any “cushion” at all but, “If wishes were horses…”!)
I don’t mean to sound Pollyanna (though I know I do, and that’s okay), but embracing my body and its aging—nay, development—is like embracing Time: it will happen. Full Stop.
What kind of a person do I want to be when it does?