Getting Old(er)

There has been a shift of sort of epic proportion in my life.

It's become abundantly clear to me that I'm old.

Well, older, I guess. And it was never more apparent than this week for some reason.

(If you already knew I was old and/or could care less, this would be a good time to stop reading.)

I worked my first show for my new job, which meant I was meeting a bunch of new people, both co-workers from my company who live elsewhere and business partners/sale reps, for the very first time. You know how those things go ... you assess them, they assess you. Your assessment antennae are up.

As I've already mentioned, in this group, I'm on the older side. I met some folks who are as old as me, I think. Which was good, a relief really. But as I looked around the show floor, it was obvious that my ingenue days were over.

In our booth? Three massage "girls" ... their self-appointed title, not mine. One was a mom, but with the attitude and composition of someone much younger. One was 23. One was somewhere in between, wearing a pair of size XS capri workout tights. There's no "competing" with that.

Walking the show floor? Lots of young women, professional and booth babe variety. And all of a sudden you notice that the people younger than you outnumber the people older than you. These women are eager and persistent and working so hard.

Out on the town? It was Vegas, so you see all kinds. But in a land where there are thousands of 20-something women on the prowl, dressed with hemlines up to here and necklines down to there ... all with 7" rhinestone heels ... it's impossible to not notice the women who THINK they can still pull off their daughters' clothes. You can almost smell the hope and uneasiness, desperation and denial.

But when do I notice it most? When I look in the mirror in the very early morning, with the help of that gawd-awful light from the bathroom fluorescents. Dark circles under the eyes. Deeply etched "parenthesis marks" on each side of my mouth. Stacked and staggered expression lines on my forehead. My face and neck have ample loose skin. In the old days, those lines were a bit more filled out, but there's no hiding them now.

I also notice it when the late group dinner is over and the "Where are we going now ... what does everyone feel like doing?" questions start. My immediate thought it, "Holy crap. It must be 10 p.m.! I'm heading to bed." The thought of being out until midnight or later, getting a fitful night of it's-never-quiet-in-a-Vegas-hotel-hallway sleep, then getting up before 5 a.m. to get a workout in is simply not an option.

I'll admit that it's not easy to look in the mirror and know, with no uncertainty, that you are no longer on the climbing side of that hill. It's tough to understand--and accept--that there are some things a woman "of your age" should not wear, do, be.

(And it's not because you can't, BTW. It's knowing the difference between the "too much" of a micro mini and the "nailed it" short skirt. The difference between sexy and slutty. Confidence and crass. Effortless versus uneasiness.)

It's vanity. Pure and simple.

But there's a good side to it all, too.

I no longer have to worry about trying to be someone I'm not. Nor do I have to wonder if what I am is good enough.

Because I know who I am and I know that I am.

Guess what? I don't have the perkiest boobs or the cutest nose or the hardest body. But that's OK. Because I know my white button-down fit perfectly, highlighting my assets and hiding my faults. The bling jeans and cowboy boots were not the most fashion-forward things in the exhibit hall, but they fit me just right and told my story without needing any help from glitter, perfume or smoky eyeshadow.

I know in my bones who I am, what I believe, what I value, how I measure success and why I think what I think. Let the young men stand in line for an hour, waiting for a massage, drooling over beautiful girls that won't give them the time of day because they are acting like raunchy little boys, thinking no one notices when they ogle high and low.

I'll spend my time, and my charm, on the lovely silver-haired man who wants to sit for a few minutes to rest his feet. I learn his company is the oldest in Detroit and how his grandfather started it. He tells me, with pride, about the process of turning it over to his three children and what a joy it is to "work" with his family ... because it's not work. It's hanging out with the people you love most. When he stops by later, I meet his friend, a former Canadian Football League star. Their stories are wonderful. Their friendship is long-lived. Their laughter is contagious.

To him, I am young. And he flirts in the wonderful way only a dashing older man can. Harmlessly, elegantly, charismatic-ly. There is something perfectly wonderful about being appreciated by one who has seen a lifetime of interesting women.

And from him I learn that getting older is the reward. It's not to be feared or hated or fought. It's a time to celebrate the wisdom you've acquired and to appreciate the road that brought you this far.

So, yeah. I've got wrinkles. I'm old(er).

And I know this me more than I've known any other. The wrinkles seem like a fair price for that.