I've never really given getting older any thought. Sure when I was nine I couldn't wait to be 10 and enter double digits. Turning 16 was a big thrill. Twenty-one was another big thrill, but that's a story for another day. Twenty-five came and went, then 30, 35, 40, and 45. This year it is 46 and you know what? It's not a big deal.
The Boy and Princess think I'm getting old and they are right. And wrong. I may be aging, but I'm not getting old. Princess sees me through her 11 year-old eyes and sees the grey hair, the 46 year-old butt, the losing battle with gravity, the scars, the wrinkles. The Boy sees me with his 'teenager' eyes and doesn't see a super model or a woman who can wear a bikini. I have to chuckle at their reactions when I show them pictures of the 21 year-old me (yes, in the bikini). I also laugh when I explain to Princess that my genes run through her body - that I am the Ghost of Christmas Future for her - and she cringes.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see a 46 year-old me. I don't see the grey hair, wrinkles, or the effects of gravity. I see the results of a lifetime of laughter, smiles, good friends, great meals, fabulous wines, wonderful experiences, tears of joy and pain, a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister. In a word, I see - Me.
I can't imagine anyone I'd rather be.