Your Roots Are Showing

I'm older. I know that. But, honestly, I still feel pretty young. Well, most days at least

Today I received a not-requested senior discount at Einstein Bagels. It appeared as a $1.03 credit on my receipt, along with the cheery explanation. And if other people don't tell me I'm older, my body definitely does.

I traveled to and from Chicago last week with my daughter and her friend. Being the self sufficient woman I am, I helped the girls boost their luggage into the airline's overhead bin. Later that day, I felt my mistake. My back has not been happy ever since. I've been putting those sticky heat patches on it, Ben Gay rub, ice, heat wraps, you name it. And still when I turn incorrectly . . . ouch.

There are other signs too. I wear glasses now . . . all the time. It started with readers, and then progressed to progressives. And I HAVE to color my hair now. Those pesky roots keep reappearing in an ever-shinier shade of silver. I (briefly) considered embracing my gray, but as you can see in the photo above, I'm still having my favorite stylist slap some color on it every 5 to 6 weeks. I'm not quite ready to say goodbye to my dark hair yet.

This middle age thing is not completely unwelcome. It has its rewards. I find I am far less self conscious than I've ever been. I am able to talk to strangers without wondering what they think of me. I'm less worried about my career moves. I'm no longer as self-conscious about my body. I don't get acne. And I've entered the glory days of menopause with no more excruciating cramping (I won't get into the downsides of that one).

No one asks me if I'm dating anybody, when I'm going to get married, what I'm going to be when I grow up, or when I'll have children. Those milestones are pretty much behind me. What's done is done. The critics have finally stopped asking.

I don't know any of the latest musicians. I perpetually call things by the wrong names. I honestly still don't know how to say meme or giff. Is it jiff?

I don't care if what I wear matches the latest trends. I'm like that "I will wear purple lady" with the red hat. Who cares if I stick out like a sore thumb?

It's pretty good overall, this aging thing. You see more. You relax more. You understand more. You enjoy more. I know who I am. I know what I believe. I have embraced my quirks, my failures, my annoying little habits.

I am plumper, grayer, blinder, sorer . . . but probably quite a bit happier.

And, by the way, I don't care if the Russians steal my identity. But I also don't need a phone app to tell me what I'll look like.

I'm pretty much there already.