When You Still Look Younger, but You’re Really an Old Lady Now

I’m aging like a fine wine, but will eventually become vinegar

“You’re almost 52,” my oldest daughter reminded me the other day. She’ll be twelve in November and has a sister who’s eight. It made me feel like I’m officially getting old.

I vaguely recall thinking my parents were old when I was eleven. My dad was only 37, and my stepmom was 41. Interesting perspective we have as children. A year feels so long when we’re young. Now that I’m middle-aged, years pass like days.

My thirties feel like yesterday.

Time keeps speeding up, and my body is slowing down. If they don’t look at my wrinkly old lady hands (I swear they were the first to show my age), most people don’t know I’m already in my fifties, so I guess I’m aging gracefully.

I’m just now starting to feel older, feeling weird aches and pains and waking up randomly in the middle of the night. Otherwise, I’m moving through my later years with relative ease.

For someone who used to suck on a dirty meth pipe, I’m doing alright. I could’ve died a few times when I wasn’t ready to accept that we humans have expiration dates. Now that I embrace life as finite, I foresee longevity in my future.

Although being a single parent can be exhausting, I almost always bounce back from fatigue or injury. I get surprised by my advanced age since I often feel like I’m in my thirties or forties.

I wonder if I’ll ever be in a relationship again.

I still feel sexy and tend to cast my gaze upon the younger ones, though I know we aren’t compatible. It’s always the thirty-somethings that catch my eye. Perhaps they remind me of when I was in my prime, long blonde hair, tan and bikinied at our local Butterfly Beach, my love interests flirting back.

A new acquaintance asked me to coffee and I declined, mostly because I felt overwhelmed by the schedule change and needed to be at home, doing my routine. Now that I’m older, I’m set in my ways. I suppose if I were in any way attracted to him, I might make an exception. But, alas, I felt no warm fuzzies.

I’m actively looking for a partner, but have yet to find a suitable match in eight years. Will I ever have sex with someone other than myself again? Will I have a Netflix and chill and buy a house together person in my life? I decided to leave these mysteries to time, of which I seem to have a lot. I’m old, but not dead yet.

I let go more easily as an older woman. I’ve had experiences with people who left me breathless, who filled my heart with joy, and now I’m reflecting on a life well-lived. If I never find a companion again, I can accept that.

I’m aging like a fine wine.

For the past twenty sober years, I wondered if I could credit my abundant consumption of merlot, although I went far beyond the recommended one glass a day, however. It’s more likely I have hearty genes and do the recommended things to stay healthy.

I meditate, walk outside, do yoga with Adriene, eat my veggies, prioritize good sleep, and drink plenty of water — daily. I’ve had occasional concerns about my mental health, but I’ve been thriving despite multiple diagnoses and perimenopause threatening me with depression.

Besides moodiness and the recent onset of hot flashes, my menopausal journey is going better than expected. I have premenstrual headaches now, which scared me at first. Since they’re now predictable, I can pop an ibuprofen and go about my day. Except for some slight changes in flow, my cycle is still regular. I can see myself as one of those rare birds who will just stop bleeding after a while, sex drive and sanity still intact.

Perimenopause is weird, though, since it comes and goes and kicks in whenever it pleases. I was prone to emotional outbursts a few years ago, which worried me and probably caused damage to my kids. Unexpected bouts of rage don’t pair well with parenting young children. I thought that was from perimenopause, but maybe I needed to address my mental health outside of hormonal changes.

A naturopath introduced me to black cohosh a couple of years ago, and a year later, I began micro-dosing psilocybin. Black cohosh calms me down, and psilocybin has inexplicably shifted my entire mindset and cleared some old patterns and beliefs I’ve carried for decades. I started taking L-Lysine around the same time, and my rosacea disappeared and never returned.

Without loads of self-care, sleep, herbs, and processing my past trauma, I’d probably be at risk for a mental health crisis. Yet, I somehow bypass serious complications of anything that ails, even COVID-19. I got such a mild case in February 2023 that it felt like a cold with body aches for three days.

I have ADHD and a skin-picking disorder called dermatillomania (a form of OCD). I’m also an addict. Early sobriety was difficult, but long-term recovery is easier for me than others. I smoked cigarettes socially and quit cold turkey right after I quit drinking and other drugs.

If genetics has anything to do with looking youthful, I have my parents to thank. Staying healthy might be all my doing. My dad and birth mother were stunning as young adults, and both gifted me their piercing blue eyes (I even got some green). My dad has aged well, looking as dapper as ever at 77. He went grey by eighteen and now has a lot of wavy silver locks — the OG Silver Fox.

He’s not as healthy because he’s stubborn about eating some crappy food, but he stays active and involved with his local choir. He works long days fixing electric motors through painful arthritis in his hands. He doesn’t express his feelings as freely as he should and sometimes seems depressed. My stepmom encourages healthy eating habits, and his dad lived to be 84. My Uncle Bob died at 80, and my Aunt is 82. We come from sturdy Swedish stock, so I think he’ll still make it to be an octogenarian, too.

My birth mother suffered from untreated schizophrenia and unresolved trauma, which led to a lifetime of homelessness and our fractured relationship.

When her hair thinned, she donned a teased-out brown wig and wore bright, gaudy makeup, attempting a 1960s version of her younger, beautiful self. She always loved bright colors, especially purple. She looked like a walking purple iris most days. I saw her face sagging as she tried not to age. I knew she was fighting the inevitable.

My mother died alone from COVID-19, surrounded by too much stuff in her first and only apartment. Her breast cancer surprisingly didn’t claim her. After such a hard life, we thought she would have died in middle age, and she lived to be 78. I think she was also quite sturdy. Her lifestyle was equivalent to the pack-a-day smoker and pint-a-day whiskey drinker, although she did neither. Living on the streets can take its toll, and yet she survived it for 35-plus years.

I consider myself lucky to be so resilient. My robust immune system does its job, and my mental health challenges are manageable. After childhood trauma and the addiction that manifested later, I’m still standing – five foot one, confident and strong.

I can feel my age catching up with me, though. I need the stars to align, i.e., 7–9 hours of sleep, little drama with my tween and younger child, not too much stimulation, and a daily walk at the very least. If I get fewer than seven hours of sleep, I can be a crabby mess.

I’m tired after a full day, even at my best. I’ve been learning a new skill, initially eager to start a second career as a UX designer. I slowed down recently, wondering how I could pull that off. Because I haven’t worked a full-time job for my eleven-plus years as a mom, I don’t know if I can handle an eight-hour day again.

How do middle-aged perimenopausal parents do it? I heard women over 50 are more likely to be discriminated against than their youthful counterparts. I have years more experience than most of them. But I can see why I might not be the best candidate for a job that may involve a fast-paced hustle. Work has taken on new meaning for me, and I probably won’t be willing or able to meet their current expectations.

Then there’s climate change. I relied heavily on our AC to stay comfortable during weeks of 90-degree weather. The summer wildfire smoke had a debilitating effect on me, causing headaches and brain fog. One particularly orange hazy day, I feared I might not survive more wildfire seasons. I’m not afraid of dying, but I don’t want to leave my kids. I felt doomsday looming.

The next day, when the proverbial and actual skies cleared, I felt like a Spring chicken again, ready to keep on prancing about in my unusually healthy older body.

I guess there will be days like this and days like that. Eventually, I’ll look and feel my age. I’ll probably be around for three (or four?) more decades. I might as well get used to seizing the good days like the youthful sprite that I am.

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