First of all, if the sixties are the new forties, someone forgot to tell my bod.
The only time that aging gets to me is when I look in the mirror. At all other times, I am still the person who dances like a native to loud rock music, cackles at outrageous situations, and shocks the children.
There are times when I find myself needing a nap, when my legs swell for no reason, and I need a hand rail to climb stairs, but those symptoms are not exclusive to people my age.
If the sixties are the new forties, then why do people around me treat me like I don’t exist?
Four years ago I decided to stop dying my hair chocolate brown and let the gray take over. I wanted to embrace my age and “go gracefully.” That was the day, people started helping me across the street, men started calling me “ma’am,” and every person behind a register started offering me the senior discount.
What happened to me, the strong woman I still am? I have single-handedly raised three adult children, achieved several educational degrees, and overcame more than my share of adversity, and now I am just some old lady that others dismiss?
I don’t think so.
I certainly don’t want to live the next third of my life being ignored or being treated condescendingly. My hair might be gray and my collagen may be collapsing, but I still know how to rock and roll, baby.