The New 63 is the same as the old 63, but with more resentment and defensiveness.
I hesitated to write this post about my birthday, since my age would be off-putting to young people. Who cares what an old bag thinks about anything?
Well, the hesitation is the essence of the New 63.
Aging has become a real detriment (if not an outright crime) in some circles. The Daily Mail likes to show pictures of actresses on the beach with titles like “Still hot at 45!” It stops me in my tracks every time, like, what do they expect, a fucking mummy at 45 years old?
45 was great. I was probably a babe but I can’t remember because I just turned 63.
I’m way beyond relevant as a blogger. Luckily, my identity isn’t invested in being an Influencer. I write because I need to. I work out my shit online, with your help.
But our culture values youth above all else. In L.A., where I live, women dress like their daughters and wear fake nails. I feel sorry for them, even though I’m still wearing the same stuff I liked to wear as a teenager.
That’s because I forget that I’m not the same me I feel like.
Inside, I’m just as stupid and insecure, lazy, confused, rebellious, sarcastic and lost as the me I’ve been all my life.
When I was 18, my best friend and I planned to be spinsters together in old age. We would dress like Victorian widows and scream at little kids from our window. Somewhere along the line, we let that dream go.
My mother-in-law will be 100 in January, and she says I’m just a kid. She doesn’t complain about being old; it’s what her generation expected.
Can you imagine?! I could never put up with thirty-five more years of this!
Meanwhile, I have very little wisdom to impart except WEAR SUNBLOCK and try to marry someone who will love you even as you are shrieking “I look like a Sumo wrestler!” while grabbing a handful of your own flab.
That is love and love is the answer.
But getting old is still pretty horrifying.