Growing old not so gracefully

inner self

When did I stop being twenty? is a title of a book I once heard of but never read, and often recall when I see women past their prime wearing low cut tops, or other attire that might have looked quite attractive when they were twenty, but not so much now.

Recently one of my two remaining aunts commented on Facebook under a picture I posted, that she thinks of me as young and I responded that I did too. In fact, I believe we all think we are still those slimmer young folks we were when we looked our best.

Perhaps there is nothing wrong with illusions of this sort, since it might make us feel better about ourselves and no harm is done to anyone else. When I was aboard the cruise ship last June and saw women deeply wrinkled donned in halters not only exposing what easily eight decades, too much sun and smoking has done to their skin, but also deep, sagging cleavages, I have to say I felt sorry for them.

This evening a sixty-ish lady came into the swimming pool for our water exercise class in a swim suit that was backless to the waist but for a few straps and the front a simple straight rectangle which moved with each step she took, all but exposing her from the side view. Other suits she wears are equally minimal and without a doubt would catch anyone’s eye if she were half her age.

Growing old gracefully is not so easy for some of us. I’ve been having my hair highlighted for about the last fifteen years, and the coloring makes me feel better about my appearance, but I stopped wearing sleeveless tops or shorts outside of my own home years ago.


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