My Black is NOT Cracking.

I used to routinely be mistaken for a much younger woman.  People always guessed my age as 10 or more years younger than I actually was.  I would sometimes even brag about how old I was just for the shocked reaction.  I might even round up to the next birthday!  It was a compliment I must have needed.  Insecurity to some degree, I imagine.  But it felt good.  I got carded well into my late 30’s and early 40’s.  Kid you not.  Looking at older photos now, I have to admit I did look extremely young.
 
Sadly, or may not sadly, that is no longer the case.  And that’s just it I don’t want to be sad about it.  No, I’m afraid that when the topic of age comes up, no one is surprised that I have grandkids.  I used to have to whip out photos to prove it!  Now no one bats an eye when I mention my grandkids and I want to feel okay about that.
 
My neck, my arm pits, my forehead, my jawline all speak for me now.  My hands have looked old since I was young.  I couldn’t stand wearing gloves, so I paid the price with old ass looking hands.  These hands were 50 when I was 30!
 
My thighs have slowly evolved into what is starting to resemble a slowly melting ice cream cone and a flavor no one wants to lick.  No matter how hard I train those quads, that skin looks exactly the same.
 
I went from rocking a bikini in my mid 40’s to a drawer full of one piece bathing suits that even when I put one on, the cover up never comes off.  Typically, I’m wearing sundresses.
 
I know I must learn to accept this new older version of myself, but this shit isn’t easy.  That being said, it feels strange complaining.  Aging is a gift that not everyone receives.  Some people never have the opportunity to age.
 
My mother was one such person.  Forty-three seemed prehistoric when I was sixteen, but as I approached my late 30’s, I realized just how young 43 was.  My mother started dying in her 30’s.  Most people have only started living and she was already dying.  So who am I to complain about a few dimples, creases and some shitty hands?  At 40 she was fighting for her life.  She wasn’t concerned about being noticed when she walked across the street or across a room.  She would have welcomed wrinkles.
 
Every day that I wake up is a gift.  Some days I think, it’s a gift I’d like to leave in the box a little longer, but it’s gift that I appreciate receiving.
 
Every woman fretting over her age, fighting the aging process, fighting to cover up her age, could be fighting for her life instead. 
 
Does that make it easier?  Some moments, yes.  Some moments, not so much! Some moments are still difficult, but I must remind myself daily, as many times a day as is necessary.
 
I’M STILL HERE. TODAY IS A GIFT. I WOULD LOVE TO SHARE IT WITH YOU!