3 Things No One Told Me About Aging

"You have such beautiful skin," she said as she reached out to stroke my cheek. It took every ounce of my 14-year-old restraint not to jerk away. "Like peaches and cream," she purred, "so smooth." 

Gulp. "Thank you." I muttered. What does one say to the fawning 60-something friend of your favorite aunt? I remember looking at her chin as she spoke. I couldn't help myself. She had whiskers. And while she admired my youthful hide and contemplated sewing herself a Silence of the Lambs coat out of it, I wondered why she didn't pluck those whiskers...or shave...or splurge on electrolysis. 

The memory of that encounter has stayed with me through the years.  I can chuckle about it now, but recently, it has taken on more significance. There are things that no one tells you about aging. Or maybe they tried to tell me, but I didn't believe them until now. Now. Now they seem significant because they make me feel limited. 

Those whiskers? No one told me that menopause and aging will make a sasquatch out of you. What's up with the hair growth? A male friend of mine was commiserating with me recently. "I'm growing hair in my ears! Since when did I become a hobbit?" he asked. I snorted my coffee. I know exactly what he meant. Give me a little green make up and a fake nose, and my whiskers and I would make a fabulous Halloween witch. Seriously. 

I remember reading an article about women celebrating menopause with ritual ceremonies meant to celebrate their new phase in life. Do you know what they call those ceremonies? CRONING CEREMONIES. Nothing about being called a crone makes me feel boundless. And as I stroke my newly found whiskers, I can't help but feel that there's a better term out there for menopausal women...like Earth Goddesses, Wise Divas, or Raging Fire Spirits. 

The reason my aunt's creepy friend didn't pluck, shave or electrocute her whiskers is that she COULDN'T SEE THEM! I was standing in my best friend's bathroom the other day, squinting at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. If I moved in close and squinched my eyes just so, I could see one white whisker beginning to show itself. As I dug through her basket of beauty tools, desperate for the tweezers, I noticed that she had one of those magnifying mirrors, but hers was special. She had stuck another more highly powered magnifying mirror on top of the first mirror. 

I asked her what that was all about. "I couldn't see with the first one any more, so I found that stronger one with the suction cup and put it on top," she explained. I've been visually challenged my whole life. I've worn high-powered glasses or contacts since I was in fourth grade and the eye doctor asked my mother, "Who has been leading her around?" But this aging crap has brought special meaning to my life. 

I can't see shit. My close up vision was the only thing I had going for me. Now that's gone. In a couple of years, I'll look like Professor Trelawny in the Harry Potter movies. This might not seem like a big deal, but in my line of work, I read and write  constantly. Whiskers aside, the vision changes have left me feeling like the mouse in the book Who Moved My Cheese?, except no one has moved it...I just can't see it anymore. 

Speaking of Harry Potter, no one ever told me that aging would be like draping an invisibility cloak over your shoulders. Magical? Nope, just invisible. When you're a 20 or 30 something woman, people notice you when you walk into a room. Even if you've been rolling around in topsoil for two hours and smell like B.O. and fertilizer, if you shake your hair out and smear on some lipstick,  heads turn. Don't pretend they don't. They do. If you haven't noticed, be more aware. 

But when you're a 50 year old woman, heads don't turn as often. My friends and I were talking about it at a wedding recently. No matter how gussied up we got, we all felt like we were wearing tablecloths, while the 25 year old hottie next to us struggled to keep her hemline pulled down to a decent length. Everyone around us enjoyed her struggle.  We were invisible. 

Maybe that's what the Red Hat Society is all about. An older friend of mine goes to a monthly Red Hat Society gathering. Women wear their red hats and get together to shop, talk and eat. At least that's what happens with my friend's group. Every month, it's more of the same at a different venue. They swoop in with their red hats to sit at a restaurant table reserved for them. They throw back cocktails or coffee, eat rich food, and talk. They're loud and proud in their loud hats, and heads turn.

So that's the equation I'm wrestling with:

 Whiskers + Bifocals + Invisibility = Old Age (Limitations).

No matter how many times I add it up, it doesn't equal boundless. Like the mad, demented math teacher that I am, I imagine myself writing it on the whiteboard in my classroom and asking, "How many different ways can you solve this equation?" 

"How can you check your answer?"

"Can you show me a model?"

Or maybe I need to change the addends up. 

Stay tuned.