I went for my physical last week, and the doctor scheduled my first colonoscopy, whilst also telling me that my lipids are excellent. I feel like I’m being romanced straight into the land of the aging with a combination of flattery and a nice dose of “let’s get you back to bed, grandma.” Have psychologists diagnosed it yet? This brainrot perspective that any given younger generation has in terms of ageism and thinking it won’t happen to them? Because I once had that. In college, I would look around at older people {who were definitely in their forties, btw} and be all, “That’s sad. Oh well, it won’t happen to me!” Cue the Leo skipping meme. No worries, because my teenagers are my own karma, now dishing out regularly scheduled insults regarding how decrepit I am. Nothing like the ego booster found in your offspring after sacrificing your body for them, amirite? After college, somewhere around my late thirties, I traded off denial for not wanting to age, and it’s apparently called “Permayouth”. See also: “Gerascophobia”, but I think I’m not alone because there’s a reason vampires were totally having a moment circa 2008, and Generation X is choosing to opt out of the Golden Girls vibe. The media absolutely worships anti-aging, from Brad’s latest jawline lift to Lindsay’s before and afters, {I mean, they do look amazing}- Because the way I see it, we can’t win. Yes, yes, aging is a privilege. I am so grateful to be here, and other things we tell ourselves to feel better about acquiring a whole lot of mileage. Don’t miss my well-placed satire in your race to the comments to correct me, since I definitely cling to humor as a reliable coping mechanism. I think we can all agree: sixty is the new forty. Or whatever. But how do we do so in a balanced, healthy way? Somewhere between totally “giving up” and trading faces, I think. Here are a few {relatable} things I’m noticing as I age: 

Nope, Not a sunburn. Day 7 of treatment. How does one take a general photo of disdain documenting their nearly-bleeding face? Like this, I guess. This photo doesn’t do it justice- the spots are rising to the surface- just let this serve as your latest reminder to wear sunscreen. Worse on day 8… and now day 9… I think I hit my peak. Now I just wait for it to return to normal.

1. I’m obsessed with my skin.
Isn’t that the starting point of where we all fall off the wagon? There is an elderly gentleman who walks through our neighborhood. Rain or shine, I can spot his determined silhouette booking it over the hill. Goals. His time of day varies, but his attire is always the same. We wave, and he nods; I want to applaud him for his focus and dedication. He’s dressed head to toe in light grey, sweat-wicking attire that obscures everything – he’s hooded, wearing sunglasses, and he means business. Years ago, I was a bit confused about why he dressed that way in the heat, sometimes covering his face. But now, as I sit here typing, my face on fire eight days into my own pre-cancer treatment, I totally get that man. The next time I see him, I’ll ask him for any tips. I’ve applied a prescription cream called Klisyri to my face, as instructed by my dermatologist, who now tells me I’m a 6-month gal instead of a 1-year gal for checkups. Yay. Said treatment is for preventative measures, and ironically enough, it looks like I just gave myself skin cancer in order to get rid of potential skin cancer. It’s much worse than the last selfie documented above. I mean, they tried to warn us, but noooo because tanning beds layered with Irish, so I’m just an idiot. Currently, I can’t really move my face, it’s starting to peel, and did I mention it itches? In public, I feel like I should have a t-shirt that states: “Chill- it’s a medical chemical peel {with a pinch of chemo}”. I have a mother-daughter fundraising dinner this week, but there’s never a good time to start this stuff and go into hiding. It takes 8 weeks to fully recover on a cellular level- wheeeee! So what am I going to do? My face is already softer. I think I’m about to start on some type of bougie laser regimen, ASAP. Please send help. 

2. I long for the peacefulness of winter.
Yep, I said it. Spring has arrived, and I’m genuinely torn. I’m always so excited about my favorite season, but this year? I can’t seem to keep up. There’s something peaceful about winter, and I’m to the age where I fully acknowledge it. Do I just beg the universe to slow down until I die? Do I struggle with caffeine dependency for the rest of my life? I always tend to sentimentally hold on to what’s there, so I know that’s part of it. We’re moving our oldest back home from college next week. He just left. I mean, glad to have him home and everything, but slow down. Our middle has her senior photos scheduled soon for the yearbook. Prom was an Olympic event in itself, with scheduled appointments and dress fittings. My allergies are absolutely shot, so that five-thirty am daily football practice for our youngest is pure torture. I absolutely adore my children, and they are my everything. But the “You’ll miss this” trope is the equivalent of telling me I will miss the toy and breastfeeding stage as soon as I step on a Lego with bleeding nipples, so stop silver-lining me, Susan. {For the record, Pros + Cons.} My point? It’s easier to embrace things when I’m not fighting for my life with exhaustion. Which brings me to, how do older parents even navigate this? I had my first at twenty-five while my prefrontal cortex was still developing, which is criminal. But how do those in their sixties with high schoolers do this? Are you rich now because you did the career thing first, and you hired help? Are you retired? Snorting a little cocaine on the side? It’s the only thing that makes sense; Please enlighten and advise.

Via the rose pepper cantina– Aging. It’s offensive.

3. I just want to garden. 
I want to retire and watch hummingbirds, but I have to pay for college. I guess I really miss the internet golden days of yore. You know, where people actually read what someone had written, and contributed thoughtful things in return via comments. Now I feel like I have to do a performative dance on TikTok, so that people’s takeaway will be one line, which they’ll misinterpret anyway. Or is it too much to ask for just one day on the socials, where people don’t assume something ridiculous and roll in with rabies and pitchforks, leaving rage-filled comments, all because they actually lack patience, paired with self-awareness, with maybe a sense of humor? I’m a writer at heart, and that slower-paced, community-driven atmosphere is what I miss. But one moment I’m hip and cool, and the next, I’m planning what flowers to plant this spring, and I thoroughly enjoy bird watching. I also tend to stand on the porch in the summer rain and talk to no one in particular about “how we really needed this.” My point? This is how it all begins. I’m drawn to nature, rather than doomscrolling. I do feel like participatory rage-commenting does come at some point, though, right? We have two paths: peaceful gardening or typing in all caps over political rants on Facebook. I should just pull up a chair and start playing bingo. 

4. Hi, I’m Claire Huxtable
I am she. She is me. {Who, whilst starring in the Cosby Show, was younger than I.} Growing up, she just really bummed me out being all responsible and stuff. I thought she was a total funsucker, and it was always her role as the food police that bothered me. Fast forward a few decades, and I regularly channel my inner Claire to remind my dearest significant other: Ummm, sir. You are not twenty, and you can not eat that, after that other thing you just ate. We have to be able to keep up when we’re older and stick around for a while. The best part is still to come, and I didn’t have kids at a young age, so I could die from clogged arteries and miss out on grandchildren later. We’re both under mutual agreement that if either one of us can’t move anymore, just give the other a proper Viking send-off in our pool, fiery arrows, and everything. I know he’d want it that way. Yes, this went from Claire Huxtable to The Hunger Games meets G.O.T. in just 2.5 sentences. Because my lipids are EXCELLENT. And that’s my latest Roman Empire. That is, if skin cancer doesn’t get me first. We all have our thing, and I’m sure I’ll take a tumble soon enough.

5. I’ve been in denial about my new bestie, peri. 
I haven’t even covered the real stuff, but I’m in the THROES of it. I’m pretty sure my hair has been falling out for a while now. At first, I blamed it on COVID, but it never stopped. So it’s probably related to my new bestie perimenopause, which is now causing a slew of other problems. I’ve always fancied myself too young for a hormonal transition of such inconvenient nature. {If I’m found dead soon, it’s because I couldn’t swallow my Nutrafol, and I need adult supervision when doing so. Anyone else struggle with those four GIGANTIC pills every day? It’s 2025, get it together, SCIENCE.} As it turns out, perimenopause has been here for a while, and it’s taken its toll on sleep, which pairs perfectly with my husband’s desperate need to have his deviated septum repaired, which definitely keeps me up at night with his snoring. The sound levels are crazy work, people. The snoring is also age-related, but we’ll go with deviated so he can feel better, and I’m now a raging psychopath, which officially makes us oil and water. Should we be the couple with two separate bedrooms? Temping. 

So there you have it. I’m circling the drain over here with my chemo skin and it feels like my face is melting off a-la the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I know “it only gets worse” because way too many people have told me this, so you can find me draped in sweat-whicking hoodies by the pool all summer. That should double nicely in the bed at night, too. I want to do this gracefully. I also want the body of a twenty-year-old and the wisdom I’ll have gained by sixty. We can’t have it all. Way to go, universe. So, I’m embracing it instead. It’s the only other option. I think.

Cheers to being forever young. Mentally, anyway.