On aging

Life gets interesting when Fifi and I walk. Today the sun was out, the sky that shade of blue that makes everything look cutout sharp. A lazy breeze only hinted it might get more industrious later. Dressed in black workout clothes, I braided my hair and we hit the streets.

We’re both getting older, my dog and I, quickly it seems. She still enjoys being admired, and I enjoy remembering what it felt like.

After we’d trotted a short way, we came upon three portly Russian gentlemen sitting on a bench, speaking of things that appeared to excite them. I should add that I was doing face gym at the time, a practice not recommended for public display. I composed my cheeks and jaw and went for a gracious, vaguely friendly, open but distant look. They hushed. The three, sunning themselves with folded arms resting on the shelf of their bellies, resumed their chatter as I approached. The language sounded different now. It purred and hummed, and I caught it buzzing.

Confident that I could pass them with dignity, I strode on, Fifi flapping at the end of her lead. As fate would have it, she had other plans. Directly in front of the men was a patch of grass. “No,” I said firmly. “We’re off to the meadow, a mere stone’s throw away.” But she dug in her little feet and balked. I muttered. I coaxed. I pleaded. It’s now or never, she said with pert button eyes and a possible smirk.

So I had to stand there for as long as it took, dressed like Cat Woman without the muscles, wondering how my butt measured up, for there was no escaping it–it was on display, and the Russians had something to say about it.

Funny thing though–suddenly I didn’t mind being older. I love my body, whatever it looks like. It’s at its best right now. I hope I’ll be able to say that every day, at every age, at every level of surrender to the years. And I realized that like Fifi, I still love attention when it comes my way. It was all I could do not to boogie.

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