It's not Botox. It's all about context. When I'm with my guy--ten years my senior--I look my age. But when I'm with 22-year olds (I'm a college professor, not a pervert--although those two things aren't always mutually exclusive), I look about 25 or so. Sparkly manicures, hair highlights and updated jeans don't hurt either. But this was all so remarkable to me because, prior to this weekend, I had accepted my age and how that somehow defined my appearance. No "mom" jeans for me, but I certainly let myself go a bit--gained extra pounds and didn't worry too much when I had to go up a size. I'm "old," aren't I supposed to be frumpy???
My age does not define me--that much was made clear this weekend. Good genes and wearing sunblock have helped, but it's more than that. It's attitude. An easier smile. A more confident approach to how I walk. It's dancing in your seat when a fun song comes on the radio. Not judging people. Being more open. And staying away from Genie bras! Those things make you look like gravity hasn't just taken hold, it has a death grip on your girls. And yes, I just called my breasts "girls"--deal with it.
Facial fillers aren't necessary. Tummy tucks? Forget about it. Strive for joy. When you do, you automatically appear more youthful, more hopeful, and ultimately, more alive. Accepting your age does not mean settling for whatever label society has chosen to give that decade of your life. Over the hill? Heck, I OWN the hill. I can hike up and down and all around that hill and not slow down. Why sit, when you can stand?
Move. Feel the rhythm of life all around you. And no matter how old (or young) you may be, your youth will never age.