It’s the damndest thing. Since I turned 50 6 years ago, or even a couple of years before that, I put limits on myself without really knowing it. When I thought of myself and how I looked I was fighting a battle that I wasn’t going to win.
It’s taken me well over a year on this self-acceptance journey, and I finally woke up and realized I was practically there. It’s harder than I expected to grow old gracefully. Hard af to be honest.
I blamed wearing black all the time on trying to hide my new size and body. I tried wearing color and realized that wasn’t it. I refused to wear shorts or feel comfortable going out bare-faced. I hated looking in the mirror because all I saw were wrinkles and a post-menopausal body.
I was depressed because I realized none of the miracle creams were going to help my crepey neck or the skin above my knees. This was the real reason I discovered why I wouldn’t wear shorts anymore.
Finally, without warning, my brain said, “enough of this ridiculous bullshit.” I finally accepted the inevitable; I was getting older after years of fighting it. I’ve written about how getting old is a privilege, but now I believe it.
I am wearing shorts again, including cut-off denim shorts. I bought ones already cut off with holes in them. They still look like they did on me when I was younger; however, they are slightly longer and more appropriate. They are not cut up to the crack of my ass like Daisy Duke’s shorts.
I am back to wearing playful t-shirts and bikinis. This, my friends, is a big thing for me. I don’t need to hide behind tankinis anymore; that made me feel disgusting anyway.
Our trip to Vegas last year was eye-opening in so many ways. I saw many women older, bigger, and wrinkled than me rocking their shit and owning it. Saying fuck it. They weren’t wearing teeny bopper clothing but cute, sexy, stylish, trendy clothing and bathing suits.
This spring, I had the urge to go shopping for shorts. This fall, I went black to wearing black not to hide my body, but because I like it. It is not a shroud of shame; it’s that I like black and gray, damn it. I still add a pop of color here and there when I feel like it.
What does all this mean? It means I feel younger again, not on the outside but within. I sometimes feel beautiful, cute, and sexy, and I don’t hate everything I see in the mirror or in photos.
They say age is only a number or to be young at heart. I had always believed those sayings but lost sight of them when my body changed. I am a confident person but lost a big piece of me. I no longer feel betrayed, ashamed, or disgusted by my body.
When I looked in the mirror this morning before heading out to make a delivery in East Greenbush, NY, I saw my old self and liked what I saw.
You know what? I can and will rock that shit like those women I saw in Vegas. I wish I wouldn’t have waited so long.
Happy Friday! Have a great Fourth of July weekend. My sister Jen is coming to visit on Saturday for the weekend. It will be fun, and the weather looks excellent on Sunday, our first day off in a few weeks.
Great insights. I, too, am coming to terms with the same things and it does make you feel lighter and more confident. A year ago, I couldn’t leave the house without my make-up perfectly done. Now, I don’t worry about it and, so far, no one is running and screaming to get away when they see me. LOL
Amen! We should all be comfortable in our own body.