Never, EVER did I believe that I would be one of those people who could NOT grow old gracefully. Turning 30 didn't hurt at all, even when I turned 39 (last year) I didn't care that I would soon be 40.
I am not a glamourous person and I am nothing even remotely close to being high maintenance. I wash my face with plain water, unless it's on one of those rare occasions that I have maybe applied make-up, then soap is added. If I happen to not feel like ironing my clothes, warm will be good enough. That's why God made dryers! Hell just today I plucked a shirt out of the hamper, gave it a good tester sniff, and pulled it over my head. I will not be picky on a Saturday!
That's why, five days ago, when I turned 40, I was completely surprised by the melancholy the day brought with it. I smiled at people, said good morning, told Dr. Wolkien I was "marvelous" (that being the adjective to describe ourselves on Mondays at work), sat down at my computer and cried. It was NOT Marvelous Monday to me, nor would Tuesday be Terrific, Wednesday be Wonderful, Thursday and Friday tremendous and Fabulous consecutively. What happened to the happy-go-lucky Ang that used to tease all of her friends who were older than her?
Who was this stranger who was pulling out a seldom used compact from her purse to check her much older self out in the mirror?
Who put the dark circles under my eyes? Why are my freckles suddenly grouping together in little families? Am I soon going to be one of those ladies who smather lipstick on their face, totally outlining their entire lips and putting some on their front teeth for good measure? Will I someday too lose my sense of smell, unable to tell how much rose scented perfume I had already marinated in?
I think I'm already walking slower. My knees hurt, my back aches, I'm pretty sure I have arthritis in my right pinky finger. If I was a person who wore make-up every day, I'd have racoon eyes by now. I don't want to grow old. I mean to say, I want to go on living. I want to see my kids grow and achieve all that they were meant to. Heck, I'd like to see my next 60 birthdays. I just don't want to look the part.
The real problem I have with all of this, is that I have no real reason at all to complain. I have nothing to be sorry for. I've got my health. I've got my family. I have my God, who is responsible for all of it. And yet I'm going to complain because I was allowed to live a mere 40 years?
I will consider myself lucky to see Terrific Tuesday.