Someone I care about a lot spent most of the day Sunday in the hospital waiting for test results. Of course, I spent the day worrying. Thankfully, the tests showed nothing wrong, so I stopped worrying. For about a minute. Now I’m walking around with a low grade terror and waking up with bags under my eyes that make me look like a cross between a shar pei and Eleanor Roosevelt. Now as anyone who knows me, or reads this blog, knows, I am a veteran worrier. I’m gonna worry unless I have complete and total assurance that there is absolutely, positively, conclusively nothing wrong, and nothing bad is gonna happen. Well, that assurance, if it comes, is pretty much a lie. No one can ever know what’s coming, good or bad. We can plan and prepare. We can eat healthy and reduce stress. We can floss and exercise and look both ways before we cross the street. But while we’re keeping an eye out for an out of control bus, the sun gets in our eyes, blinding us so we walk into a pole and fall into a manhole, never to be seen again. Let’s face it, bad things happen, whether I worry or not. And meanwhile my life passes me by and before you can blink an eye, I’ve missed the good because I was too busy waiting for the bad, and I’ve got bags under my eyes that are gonna cost me.

Namaste
carynjune

It often occurs to me as I read a lot of my previous posts, that they aren’t necessarily about getting older. Sometimes, they’re just about life, albeit from the perspective of someone who is, in fact, getting older. And maybe that’s the point. There isn’t a single thing on earth, living or otherwise, that isn’t getting older. From the day we’re born, we age. And that’s a good thing. Imagine a world full of smooth-faced newborns who scream a lot, but don’t have much to say. So, let’s revisit getting older just a little before we return to the business of living. Wrinkles, age spots, lumps and bumps that never seem to disappear, creaky joints, gas, the need to color my hair more often to retain my natural red hair, bunions, bad knees, weak ankles, a spare tire around my middle that grows in direct proportion with the the decreasing distance between my boobs and my pelvis, and did I mention gas? Wisdom, growth, passion, 3 nieces that have become amazing young women I can actually talk to, old friends, greater perspective, less fear, more joy, lessons learned, experiences, good and bad, memories, life. There’s a cosmetic movement that’s become sort of the next big thing. One company calls it “Miracle Blur”, others call it a primer. It’s basically spackle for your face. It smooths out all the lines and the wrinkles and makes you ten years younger! Only it doesn’t, not really. I still see the laugh lines around my eyes, the cranky lines between my brows, the life I’ve lived. There’s a fine line between being your best self and erasing the life off of your face. What we are is a patchwork of where we’ve been, what we’ve done, what we’ve gained and lost. If we blur the lines, all we are left with is a smooth-faced newborn who screams a lot, but doesn’t have much to say.

Patchwork Quilt Series #1, #2, #3
carynjune