Growing old. Gracefully.

     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.