Aging Gracelessly

There it was. Tucked away beneath a pile of other, appropriately colored hairs. It brazenly took hold at the front of my head, near the bangs. It was coarser, more wild than it's cousins. And bright...it was so bright.

A beacon.

A stowaway.

An intruder.

A gray hair.

I consider myself youthful. My kids tell me I'm immature - and I consider that a good sign that I'm living youthfully. I quote iconic movie lines. I wear ironic t-shirts. I play video games. I'm trying too hard, here, aren't I?

Sigh. In all honesty, my introduction to the knowledge I *might* be aging started on my 36th birthday. I was visiting my parents' house and suddenly, I was in pain. Significant pain. I thought maybe I had the worst constipation of my life (no, that's not the moment I realized I was aging), but the pain became excruciating. I was in my parents bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, crying, when my Dad said, "I think you have a kidney stone." A kidney stone? No way. Kidney stones are for old men.

I'm going to save you the agony of a long story here and just say my Dad was right. It was the first in a long line of kidney stones that I ultimately discovered I'd never get over because I had...wait for it...a congenital deformity called Medullary Sponge Kidney. I still laugh at the diagnosis. I watch way too much Sponge Bob for that not to be funny.

That weekend, the litany of tests from there, the surgery that went along with it, and the diagnosis that I'd always have kidney stones was not really the moment I realized I was aging. It was the information that I'd had this condition all my life, but it only becomes symptomatic "at my age."

Then, I started having mood swings. And break outs. And other...um...hormone related things. And the doctor said it wasn't at all uncommon for women "of my age."

And then my oldest son started to exclaim how much I was starting to look like my father. And every time I looked at my hands, all I saw was my mother's hands.

We will call the gray hair the final straw. It was the undeniable proof that I am aging. So, I plucked it. I stared at it there in my hand and I realized, my hands are beautiful. They are my mother's hands as I remember them when I was a girl. They are big, warm, rough, weathered. They are what Seinfeld would call 'man hands.' And I looked up at the mirror and I saw my Dad. I saw the way his eyes kind of slope down at the outside. I saw the nose known as the 'Pearce nose' (my grandmother's maiden name is Pearce). I smiled and my Daddy smiled back at me.

I saw the break outs - benign little constellations that I can't for the life of me get rid of. I saw the laugh lines, the deep wrinkle between my eyes, the one age spot on my left cheek. And I looked down at the gray hair and thought, "You are a flag of triumph, aren't you?" My little gray hair, who I know won't come back alone next time, is more proof that I follow in a long line of people who aged while loving, laughing, learning, living. A line of people who are in their 60's and 80's and are beautiful beyond words.

I'm not saying I'm going to stop using anti-aging moisturizer. Let's not get carried away. I'm just grateful that I had a peaceful moment about getting older and maybe realizing that it's going to be sooner rather than later that I have to retire those ironic tees.