So this is the year I turn 40. Four zero. The Big 4-0.
And the sad part is I still feel closer to 15 than I do to 50. If I ignore the grey hair and slowly developing crows-feet, that is. I will admit that there is a part of me that is in a slight state of shock. I swear it was only yesterday I was a 16, wearing acid wash jeans, neon laces, and listening to Duran Duran. Now I'm a suburban mom of two busy kids, married to a lovely man that I think may have had dark brown hair once upon a time! (Don't worry sweetie. You are looking more like Richard Gere every day!)
Mind you, some of the signs of aging have been with me for quite some time. My sister discovered my first grey hair when I was 18. Yes, that's right, 18. For a period of time through my 20s I made valiant attempts to either pluck out the offending strands or go through the occasional dye job, all in the name of vanity. However, it reached a point where plucking them out was getting a bit ridiculous, as I really didn't need to develop a bald spot on my temple. And the last time I tried dying my hair, it didn't really take very well. My hair actually isn't turning grey so much as it is going white. I have visions one day of being one of those little old ladies that needs to get the occasional blue rinse! So, I've given up on colouring my hair, and have decided to go with the au naturale look. I can't decide if this makes me lazy or if it makes me a stronger woman because I won't bend to what society says I should be/look like/blah blah blah. My husband says it makes me look more my age. Whether or not that is a good thing is to be debated. What it does mean is that every morning I'm faced with an aging vision of myself in the mirror. Nothing quite so humbling as having to admire your grey streaks every day.
As I approach this auspicious birthday, other unkind things have happened to remind me that the body I inhabit isn't exactly what it used to be. For example, I've recently been diagnosed with a sliding hiatus hernia. In layman terms, this means that a portion of my stomach has now decided to take up residence above my diaphragm, causing extreme pain and discomfort if I indulge in too much of anything, especially things like Christmas dinner. Apparently this unfortunate situation has developed due to having been pregnant twice. The fact that I packed on 50 pounds to my 5' frame both times probably didn't help the situation any. I guess the diaphragm can only take so much abuse. You have to understand that I have very few vices. They basically consist of red wine, chocolate chip cookies and fantastic food. Give me a perfectly done leg of lamb with a glass of superb merlot, and I'm one happy camper! The fact that I now feel like my food likes to bite back once in a while is rather depressing. Though I will admit that I laughed for two days after getting the diagnosis. Given all the chest pain that I had been experiencing off and on for 2 years, I was slowly becoming convinced I was having heart problems. A hernia? Seriously? I'll take that over a heart attack any day!
So, what is one to do? Well, I can either roll over bemoaning the fact that I'm slowly morphing into my little white haired Aunt Edith and that I can't indulge myself at the buffet table, or I can look on the bright side. My greying hair means that I no longer get ID'd at the liquor store and, if I can't eat large quantities of food, I never have to worry about becoming obese. And I don't have a heart problem. And, as one of my dear friends likes to say every year on her birthday, at least I'm still on the right side of the grass!
Which brings me to this. I intend to defy my aging body and once again run a 1/2 marathon in August. I did this once before 2 1/2 years ago. It wasn't pretty, but I did it. I've done very little since. I have 7 1/2 months to get my nearly 40 year old body to cooperate. I started on Monday and came to the horrifying realization that this is going to be long, painful and quite possibly fool hardy. But, I refuse to go quietly into that good night. I intend to drag my sorry butt through whatever physical pain and discomfort is necessary to get over that finish line.
So, who's going to join me? Come on, you know you want to! It's only 21.1 km. It isn't going to get any easier the older you get! Come on, I dare ya! ;-)
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