My Black is NOT Cracking.

Oh Damn. I published this out of order. This post was supposed to precede “I Feel Bad About My Hair & My Neck!. Ooops! But here it is!

I recently unpacked a box of books I hadn’t seen in nearly nine years. Finding them felt a little like running into old friends. One of my favs tucked away inside was Nora Ephron’s, I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. I loved me some Nora.

When I first started writing, I dreamed of being the brown version of Nancy Meyers and Nora Ephron. I wanted to write witty observations. I wanted to write about smart women, complicated friendships, and stories that reminded us that life doesn’t end after forty, fifty or even sixty. Their work made growing older look interesting, funny, and something not to be feared.

The timing of rediscovering that book couldn’t have been more perfect because recently, with my reading glasses perched on the tip of my seemingly ever growing nose, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of my own neck.

And I concur, Nora. I too, feel bad about my neck. (Among other body parts!)

One of my favorite actresses, Diane Keaton, famously covered hers with scarves. I would break out in a sweat just looking at her. Post-menopause, I can’t even tolerate a necklace. I could never understand how on earth she could wrap yards of fabric around her neck and survive? I would look at her and feel like I was standing on the sun’s surface!

Yet, out of pure vanity, I spent the last couple of winters suffering through turtlenecks. They became my seasonal torture go to.

I want to accept these changes, y’all. I really do.

But some days I look in the mirror and think, “Who authorized this remodeling project? Did I approve these plans? Can we fire the architect?”

Nora’s book is a collection of hilarious essays about the realities of aging as a woman and skimming through it again reminded me how much she and Nancy Meyers influenced me. They gave mature women center stage long before it was fashionable. They understood that wrinkles, regrets, reinvention, and laughter could all exist in the same story.

Anyone who has been reading my blog (all thirteen of ya’ll!) for a while knows it started out focused primarily on health, nutrition, and fitness. Somewhere along the way, it evolved into observations and occasional rants about aging and life in general. (Did I say occasional?)

I suppose loss has become a recurring theme. (Sorry.) 

It’s not like I’m obsessed with sadness.  Unfortunately, as we age, loss simply becomes more frequent.

You lose people.

You lose dreams.

You lose the ability to read a menu.

You lose collagen.

You lose strands of hair.

And occasionally, you lose your patience because I’m convinced you only get a limited supply.

Watching friends and family disappear while simultaneously watching your cheeks head south and your neck start to look like it’s attached by strings, is a lot for one person to process.

Some days I feel like a misshapen piece of Play-Doh. (Old enough to remember Play-Doh?) Ah. If only reshaping myself were as easy as squishing everything back into place. Instead, I walk around hoping everyone else’s eyesight is as bad as mine.

Stress and grief take a tremendous toll on the body. I know because I’m living proof. I don’t think anything accelerates aging quite like chronic stress and heartbreak.  I looked like a completely different person in 2020. There was very little change the prior ten years.  I have the photos to prove it! (Which I also recently unpacked.)

And if I’m being honest, I haven’t been taking very good care of myself.

I’ve been postponing doctor appointments.

Rescheduling dental visits.

My workouts have become shorter.

My walks less frequent.

I rush out the door without taking my vitamins or doing many of the small things that once made me feel good.

I’ve been taking care of everything and everyone. Except me. And I know better.

Bottom line is that what is happening on the inside eventually shows up on the outside. And don’t get me started on how dental care somehow exists outside of the healthcare system when poor oral health has been linked to heart disease, diabetes, stroke, inflammation, dementia, and a whole host of other conditions. Your mouth isn’t separate from your body. Last time I checked, it’s attached.

Health isn’t just about creams and serums and chasing the latest miracle supplement. It is about the basics we often neglect.

Sleep.

Movement.

Stress management.

Relationships.

Nutrition.

JOY!

And your skin, our largest organ responds to what we feed ourselves, both internally and externally. It reflects stress. It reflects grief. It reflects joy.

Which brings me to something I am learning, over and over again:

Joy is not frivolous.

Joy is medicine.

Joy is stress management.

Joy is self-care.

Joy is resistance.

And perhaps joy is one of the few anti-aging strategies that doesn’t come with monthly payments or require a prescription.

We can’t stop aging. At least not yet. But we can influence how we travel through the process.

We can nourish ourselves.

Move our bodies.

Laugh more.

Protect our peace.

Take the walk.

Schedule the appointment.

Take the vitamins and eat better.

Read the book.

Shut the door for a day.

And maybe forgive ourselves for having necks. If Nora Ephron could laugh about it, perhaps there’s hope for the rest of us.

Though I’m still keeping a few turtlenecks around.

Just in case.

(And I am happy to report I scheduled some joy for the summer!  Taking writing classes in Bryant Park in NYC. Sourdough and pizza classes. And if I can get up early enough, Tai Chi in the park at 7!)