It's something that happens over time and causes us to act, feel, function and most obvious, look different. Laugh lines, wrinkles, sun spots, and stretch marks have made their way onto many peoples' skin. Some adults pour money into that non-existent fountain of youth, while others accept these little badges of time and wear them proudly (is that the right word?). After all, they do usually represent many significant memories from years ago.
Laugh lines are memories of good times. Years of hearty chuckling.
Days that turned into nights because the comedy and conversation were so tantalizing you just had to stay up.
Every time your toddler repeated something she shouldn't have and you couldn't hide your snickering.
That evening you spent watching old home-movies with your family.
And how about those wrinkles-- showing all the millions of emotions you've experienced in a lifetime.
When you cried and cried after scraping your knee during a game of tag.
Those late nights you were scared to come home because you missed curfew and you knew mom or dad (or both) would be sitting, waiting on you.
Remember all those late nights in college: whether you were lounging and laughing with friends or rubbing your forehead as you tried to figure out what exactly Orwell had on his mind when he wrote "Animal Farm."
And you can never forget the roller-coaster of emotions you felt upon meeting your newborn baby. Excitement turned into pure joy; smiles sometimes morphed into tears; tears wept over a feverish child in the middle of the night; pride you feel when they walk, talk, wave goodbye to you from the school bus or walk at graduation or maybe down the aisle; and of course when you meet their first-born.
Yes, wrinkles are the road map of our lives.
Don't forget sun-spots--while not the most attractive tan, they represent summers spent outdoors and in the sun.
Pools.
Gardening with Grandma.
Running in the sprinkler.
Cancun or Palm Beach.
Tending to crops.
Selling lemonade.
And how about stretch marks? Women, I'm talking to you.
Some of us have them and most of us would trade them in for that tummy we sported 10 years ago; but I know we wouldn't trade them for those precious 9 months or the prize we got at the end.
I, like millions of women, ignore them when I look in the mirror; while at the same time, I consider them my badge from the war my body went through for 40 long weeks.
Oh, and each time I woke up nauseous, felt the baby kick, saw my belly grow another centimeter, or devoured a piece of chocolate cake just because I could --yes, I know that's how you get stretch marks!
These facts of aging, though not easy to accept, are not as bad when you look at them from a proud, badge-wearing point-of-view. But what I can't seem to accept, nor do I think I ever will, are little, gray hairs on my head.
Think about it.
Keep thinking about it...
See, you can't think of any good reason they show up, can you? Well, neither can I. I HATE them. Y
es, HATE is a strong word, but when we're talking about gray hairs I think I can say HATE, HATE, HATE!!!There's no memory associated with graying. Seriously, the only memory-like quality about gray hairs goes a little somethin' like this:
You're looking in the bathroom mirror while brushing your teeth; and you spot one. You grab the tweezers and inch closer to the mirror (or pull out your super-jumbo, well-lit, crazy-magnified little mirror) looking for that little scoundrel. You find him (because it's obviously a him) trying to camouflage himself with his perfectly-colored and in-tact friends. You pull him out from hiding and pluck him out of your beautiful, young scalp. You hold the tweezers under the light to double-check the grayness-- making sure you didn't just pluck a highlighted or blond hair. And then the truth, or the gray root, is staring at you. You can see where the change occurred; where your natural hair color meets up with the gray. And then you wonder, Why? What happened on that day that made you decide to start growing gray? You scoff at the ridiculousness of it all and toss that hair down the drain (or maybe in the trash), and voila, you're gray-free (or at least you think you are because you really don't have time to check for any more-- but you put that on your to-do list for Saturday right between shopping at Target for hair dye and taking a nap-- HA).
Sound about right-- I'm mainly talking to those of you who are not blond because I heard you blondies don't really notice those gray hairs (remember when I mentioned double checking suspected gray hair to make sure it wasn't blond? ).
Well, I have no love for those gray hairs. There's nothing about them that says, sweet memories helped to build you. I'm sure someday I'll be embarrassed when I have to call a plumber (no one named Joe, though) to fix my bathroom sink, and he comes down to report how the plumbing experience went by explaining, Well mam, it looks like the old folks who lived here before you must have lost a lot of hair while they brushed their teeth because all I could find are huge clumps of little, gray hairs.
I'll comment on how strange that is and he'll leave here non the wiser. And I'll run off to Target!
1 comment:
Lara - This is too funny! I love my two gray hairs and wish I had more. I see them, like the other signs of aging you mentioned, as a badge - a certification of a life lived. Maybe they don't represent those fun nights staying up eating pizza and drinking, uh, beverages, or sleep-deprived days of caring for a newborn, but they represent something. The trials. The parts of living that will make or break you. They are signs of a survivor. Needless to say, I feel I've earned way more than two in the past few years, so I greet each new one with an enthusiastic, "Welcome! I've been waiting for you!" In that respect, you've earned a few as well. Wear your badge with pride!
--Michelle
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