A big part of the turning 50 angst--which will likely surprise nobody but me--is about looks.
For years I have genuinely embraced my laugh and smile lines (I did not use the pejorative term "wrinkles" in my head). These are the marks of living, right? And sun-damaged skin? Well, that was because I was busy having so much fun in said sun. This is the skin of someone that taught children to swim in the ocean, planted flowers in the spring and watched outdoor sports year-round. It's not like I was going to not do any of those things just to protect my looks (thought I have been a sunscreen fanatic for 30 years).
In the end, I wouldn't give up a single moment in the sun to look younger today. At least that's what I tell myself. Sob. No really. But . . .
It's hard to let go of pretty to make way for "pretty for her age." It's annoying to have become a cliche as I approach a milestone birthday. Would I hold fast to my scorn of cosmetic surgery if money wasn't a barrier? Honestly, I would likely find someone possessing a light hand with the fillers and I'd sure as hell have a lot more facial treatments.
I like to think I'd never succumb to the knife, but I sure have more empathy for women that make that choice than I used to.
So that's what's inside my head. Well, that and "How old is she? Do I look younger or older than her?" and "Can I get away with those boots at my age?"
I sure hope the answer to the second question is yes, because I've been wearing them almost every day.