Acting My Age

[Come, join me for a meandering monologue already in progress.]

I have not yet figured out what exactly it means to "age gracefully."

Seriously. What does that mean? Is it about acceptance? Is it about "living your best life," whatever that actually means? Is it continuing to think about the future even though said future is by necessity getting shorter as you work your way into it?

Hm, that last one is jarring. Let's not go there right now.

Still, I find myself wondering -- and it has a lot to do with my inner monologue. I don't think I'm alone in this: my inner monologue sounds perpetually 24. Her voice hasn't changed. Her opinions certainly have and she knows a lot more than she did sixteen [eek] years ago, but there haven't been major shifts in her vocabulary or basic approach to many things. And if that's true for me, how many of us are carrying around the same thing? Maybe we don't necessarily act our ages because, deep down, we also don't hear our ages. We hit a certain cognitive peak and stay there awhile, bask in it, wear it in.

Actually, this may explain a lot. The physical aging process has been the usual gradual thing – I live in in this body every day and don't really notice the grey hair and wrinkles until I'm looking at an old picture (or I'm in a conference call in bad lighting). So if in my brain I'm still 24 and therefore mentally convinced that I "look" 24, that's why all those kids who are actually 24 look like children to me. "No, this is what an adult looks like!" No wonder I can't seem to absorb any music made after 2010.

So back to the real question: what does it mean to age gracefully?

Is it about being fine with your body? Brain perception aside, I do not worry about looking older. On some level it's even a relief. I embrace the grey hair, and if I don't quite embrace the wrinkles I don't actively dislike them. (My aggressively neutral stance toward wrinkles is currently contributing to the line between my eyes. So is my job, which has made me frown very hard at products that refuse to cooperate.) I may have a few extra pounds and my knees occasionally hurt, but generally I'm okay. I can still do the things I want to do, although perhaps now it's a 5-mile walk instead of 8 miles. Or 3 miles if I have plans afterward.

On the flipside, if aging gracefully requires me to subscribe to the, "no, you must look younger, but by all means we'll judge you if you also dress 'too' young" thing, it's not going to happen. That is dizzying
and requires entirely too much effort, money, and time to keep up. There's nothing graceful about what we [by which I mean those of us on the femme side of things] are expected to do, so I'll stick with my own definition of graceful physical aging.

But acting like an adult?

Well.

I don't know what aging gracefully looks like there and I don't generally "look" like much of an adult. I don't have kids. I don't own a house. The Tall One and I live fairly small and do as we please, which means a lot of good meals and some LEGO sets that I certainly don't need but fully enjoy assembling.

Does all of this mean that I'm living my best life.

Um. Maybe? I kind of hope not. Feels a bit disappointing if that's the case.

Am I content enough?

Hoo boy.

Is it possible I can accept that things are pretty good, and while there's always room for improvement it's okay if it's slow going?

That feels ... mature. Adult. Reasonable. A goal to reach for, if that's possible. Acceptance with just enough discontent to keep trying.

I anticipate a lot more thinking about this over the week.