When I was young, I wasted a lot of time wishing I was older. When I was twelve, I wanted to be fifteen. When I was fifteen, I wanted to be eighteen. When I was eighteen, I wanted to be twenty one.
Then all of a sudden, it went in reverse and I found myself constantly wanting to be younger.
But a weird thing has happened lately, without me even realising.
I seem to now be classed as ‘an older woman.’
Huh. That’s weird. I’m forty one, not seventy one. Since when is forty one, old?
What’s even weirder, is that I’ve never been more comfortable in my skin. My forty one year old skin. I feel healthy, happy (most days,) and sometimes … I even feel a leeeeeetle bit sexy.
You want to call me ‘an older woman?’ That’s fine by me. Seriously. It’s just society doing that whole ‘labeling’ thing again … I could be called worse.
I’ve had two children. I’ve had one career and am in the process of trying to see if I can be successful at another. I’ve been divorced, then bereaved. And then bereaved and ‘divorced’ again. I’ve done amazing things. I worked hard for a degree aged thirty six and did my best to get the best grades I could. I’ve been hurt like I never thought I could be hurt. I’ve laughed until I couldn’t breathe … and cried equally as hard.
So you see, at forty one years old, I have lived. I have the scars to prove that I HAVE LIVED. The ones you can see, and the ones you can’t.
It’s not all pretty. It’s far from perfect. But it is what it is.
I have the beginnings of a few ‘laughter lines’ (ok, wrinkles,) which you can only really see when I smile … which is quite a lot. I have fabulous hair, which just happens to cover a few stubborn grey hairs that have started to come through and I have big boobs, matching big hips and ass for days.
If people want to call me old, I really don’t care.
It’s ALL good. Seriously! I’m forty one. AND WHAT?