Whiplash

Portrait of a desperate 40-something wanna-be-20-something, or an attractive, uninhibited bon-vivant?
(p.s.: that's not me)

Today I had my first mammogram; along with it, the expected rush of anxiety over whether the technicians will find anything abnormal with the girls. The procedure was far less traumatic than I thought it would be (not that I had visions of Spanish Inquisition-like tortures involving spikes and leather straps -- or is that my BDSM fantasy?...but I digress...). The technician talked me through it in such a matter-of-fact way, that it almost took on the air of a dental cleaning or getting fitted for a new pair of shoes. So, if ever you or someone you love is facing a
mammogram for the first time, take heart, it's not always that horrible. Nonetheless, it still gave me a mild case of the willies.

The mammogram is just the latest worry about my declining body. I'm starting to acknowledge the fact that I'm really, truly aging. Yeah, yeah, forty is the new thirty is the new twenty, but the old saw, "I'm not as young as I used to be." is really beginning to resonate within my psyche, like a jarring gong. Last weekend, at the CNE, The Boyfriend and I did the 'Guess Your Age/Weight to within 2 yrs./3 lbs.' game. He has snow white hair, I have an enviable lack of wrinkles, so we thought we'd be walking out with a big, plush alien doll in no time. Sadly, disappointingly, crushingly, upsettingly, we were wrong, oh, so wrong. He nailed our ages. BAM! and BAM! I was the 43-yr-old I have never fully accepted, he was the 45-yr-old with a 75-yr-old's hair colour. I felt as if the whip-wielding Goddess of Reality had just given me twenty lashes on my cheeks, for my smug state of denial.

However, what bothered me the most, was my reaction. If I can't be forever young, I'd really love to grow old joyously and graciously. I don't want to be a stereotype, trying desperately to pretend my cells haven't oxidized at all. I don't want to fall into the stereotypical 'cougar' trap (witness this feminist reproach SNAP!!!! -- the sound of a thousand bra straps being released at once). I don't want to ignore the fact that my body is gradually breaking down and I will have to deal with the reality of tending it, and making plans for its inevitable shut-down. I don't want to mourn the fact that I can't bounce back like I used to after a night of debauchery. At the same time, part of me feels like I haven't fully squeezed out all that my youth has to offer. And, though I could stand to shed one or two or ten pounds, and I can't bench press 125, and my 'pores' aren't as small as they used to be, I'm told I'm not too hard on the eyes. I'm pretty youthful for a forty-three-year-old. I could pass for ten years less, according to some. Geez, no wonder Reality's whip stung so sharply.

Should that really matter? Am I not more than just (wrinkled, age-spotted, sagging) skin deep? Am I not the sum of all I have experienced? Aren't I waaaaay more interesting now than I was twenty years ago? It would be futile -- not to mention impossibly expensive and foolish -- to try to erase that. Or so I hope.

Now, to find the right scar-minimizing cream at the local snake-oil shop ...