Fuck. I’m old.
The Dreaded Word.
Oh, sure. I’ve had a couple in my lifetime due to IBS and doctors being highly suspect of Crohn’s. But I digress.
I recently visited my GP, and while she was examining my shoulder, she suggested weight loss along with an age-related colonoscopy. JFC. It was like telling me I hit some abstract milestone that, until that point, only seemed imaginary. None of it seemed real. She reminded me that I’ll be fifty next year. I wasn’t ready to hear that.
So, in addition to having a frozen shoulder, which I may or may not have mentioned on social media, I was brutally reminded that I’m getting old. God, I’ve barely a wrinkle. And that stripe of white hair that gets I ever-so-delicately dyed lest I look like Rogue? Well, I don’t look my age. I don’t see an almost fifty-something staring back at me in the mirror.
But I haven’t always had it easy. I should look older. Abusive childhood, abusive marriage first marriage, worry, regret, health issues, 20 years of smoking, less than stellar diet at times… all the things that make someone look like they’ve been ridden hard and put away wet, but there’s barely a dent. I do feel it though: the aches and pains of arthritis, shoulder issues, migraines, bowel issues, and chronic Asthma. I’m a walking medical nightmare at times.
That realization is that I’m aging. And I don’t like it one bit.
So, What’s Next?
Hmm. Well, I went on a plant-based diet about 4 weeks ago. I’ve adhered to it even though I do make exceptions for bacon and salmon occasionally. (I refuse to quit those two cold-turkey.)
The next project is to overhaul the girls in 2023. Oh, yes. THEM. Boobs, knockers, melons, bazookas, breasts… Yup. It’s time for a reduction. No more stress on my shoulders, neck, and back. I will be able to breathe again. No lie. It affects my breathing. As such, I get to navigate the journey of dealing with doctors and insurance, for a process that is inherently patriarchal and misogynistic because most insurers classify it as an elective procedure. Most women have to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that their health is negatively impacted before an insurer will cover the procedure. Because how dare we get rid of something our male counterparts might enjoy.
But they are wrong…
To quote my husband, “More than a handful is greedy.” I love that man. I don’t think he’ll enjoy the smaller ones any less. I know I sure won’t.
Therefore, in addition to a breast reduction and losing some weight, I’ve accepted that there isn’t much else I can do to overhaul the chassis. I’ve accepted that I have to wear multifocal lenses now. I’ve accepted the fact that I sometimes can’t hear as well as I once did and that I get the occasional hot flash or two or ten. I’ve accepted the fact that my husband loves me and thinks I’m beautiful despite my self-esteem telling me otherwise. I’ve accepted that I’ll never be that skinny girl in the picture again. I’ve accepted that it’s more important to be happy and healthy in the latter half of my life than not.
Yes. Fuck, I’m old. But you know what? That’s okay.