aging

Why is age a taboo question?

One Sunday while teaching the Primary children (ages 3-11) during singing time, I shared a story regarding a childhood memory. I finished the anecdote by mentioning my age at the time, which was about five years old.

One of the kids piped up with the query, “How old are you now?” Without hesitation, I responded, “I’m forty-two.”

One of the Primary teachers felt inclined to add his two cents, remarking that asking someone’s age is not polite. Which sort of annoyed me. Because clearly, I failed to be embarrassed by the question.

And why should anyone be? Aging is inevitable. At what point do we decide that rather than “celebrate” another year of getting older and wiser, we need to conceal it from the general public? It’s just plain weird to me.

It didn’t help the matter that the teacher who “silenced” the child was a twenty-something male. Perhaps he was trying to be sensitive to the fact that women are often particularly averse to the aging process.

Not this woman.

The problem is, if people (and women, particularly) shy away from revealing our age, it only perpetuates the idea that old age is worthy of our disdain.

So while I may not shout my age from the rooftops, I will do my part to remove its stigma by giving inquiring minds a straight answer. Especially kids, who should never be made to feel ashamed by the simple curiosity of asking someone how old he/she is.

If I’m not ashamed to answer, hopefully they won’t be when they’re “old” like me.

Ten thousand steps a day.

A few months ago, Tim replaced his fitness tracker because it wasn’t compatible with the app that his work uses to give him “credit” for healthy living. My man wanted his 50 bucks a quarter for getting his steps in, for heavens sake.

I gladly accepted the cast-off fitness tracker as a gift.

Admittedly, I was kind of obsessed with checking how many steps I was racking up throughout the day (and how).

I became frustrated when pushing my son on the swing for fifteen agonizing minutes yielded like 20 steps.

Or when I exercised one morning (it was arm day) and yielded less than 500 for a half hour sweat sesh. What a rip-off.

Then again, what a pleasant surprise to discover that folding three loads of laundry converted to almost a thousand steps.

Clearly, the “steps” feature of my fitness tracker is somewhat lacking in accuracy.

Still, the very first day I wore it, I discovered that I got over 10,000 steps. On a pretty average day. And the day after that, and the day after that too.

It turns out that this stay-at-home Mom gig is rather strenuous. Not that I’m surprised.

What that also means, is that the weight gain I’ve experienced over the last year and a half (I blame the remodel) has little to do with inactivity. Crap.

What does a girl over forty have to do to maintain her figure?

On the days I exercise (only like two a week, unfortunately) I get over 15000 steps…and no weight loss.

I can’t say that the word “skinny” has ever been used to describe me. And I’ve never been willing to take drastic measures just to look good in a swimsuit. It’s just not where I place my value.

But honestly, maybe I should. Cause 10,000 plus steps just ain’t gonna save me from a heart attack unless I learn to put down the fork. Today.

40 is the new…50?

I turned forty last year.  Tim threw me a delightful party with friends and indulged me in some of my favorites-pizza, chocolate, and a promise to take me to New York once our house was paid off (which actually happened 7 months later).

Turning forty wasn’t a huge deal for me.  Maybe having a one-year-old gave me a false sense of youth.  I’m still in my child-bearing years-I must be young!

And then the gray hairs started coming in.  I know, I should count myself lucky that it took this long.  Most of my friends have been dyeing their hair for years.  They probably assumed I was too.

It’s funny, cause I’ve always taken a measure of pride in my lack of vanity.  I’ve never spent much time on my appearance-my clothes, my hair, my makeup.  Most days I roll out of bed, clean my face and brush my hair and teeth and call it good.  If I left the house, I’d take it up a notch by throwing on some eyeliner.  And a bra.  Maybe.

But that’s just not cutting it anymore.  I thought I wasn’t vain but now that I’m starting to look my age, dyeing my hair doesn’t seem so bad.  I sorta get why the beauty industry is worth $265 billion dollars.  My share of it just might increase this year.  (From like $50 to $100 tops).

If I’m really honest, though, I don’t want to care.  Because my worth has nothing to do with my appearance.  I realize most everyone knows that. But do our actions reflect it?

I remember standing in front of my bathroom mirror one time when my girls were still little. I was applying a bit of makeup, probably in preparation for a date with my hubby.  Anna asked, as only a young girl can, “Mom, why are you putting that stuff on your face?”

I didn’t know what to say.  I probably mumbled something lame about having to cover up a zit(whoever said those would go away in adulthood was a big, fat liar).

Her response: “But why?”  I might have muttered a few words about wanting to look pretty for dad.  What I DO remember is how pointless makeup seemed while trying to explain its purpose to my 8(ish) year-old daughter.

I mean, was I really trying to impress Tim?  He sees me without makeup all the time and still loves me.  And, as a side note, some studies have shown that men prefer make-up on the light side rather than a more done-up look on women.

I certainly don’t think there’s anything wrong with looking one’s best.  I buy new clothes, style my hair (once in a blue moon) and wear makeup at least half the time.  I realize there is a level of personal satisfaction that comes from feeling attractive.  I’m not sure where that comes from and I’m dubious that I should cave to the pressure of that voice in my head.

Because let’s face it.  We’re all going to get old someday.  My boobs are gonna sag (already do), wrinkles will take over, age spots and gray hairs will multiply.  How much time and money am I willing to spend to stem the tide of aging?  And, more importantly, what message am I sending to my sweet daughters about the importance of my appearance through my own actions?

I don’t know if I have the answer.  What I do know is there’s a balance to be found, and I fear that our society places far too much emphasis on physical beauty.  I personally hope to set an example for my girls that steers them away from that focus.

And judging by the fact that we forget school picture day almost every year, I think it might be working.