For me, the start of a new year always involves some level of self-examination. My intention is to examine my conscience and determine where there is room for improvement. I intend to take a look at my experiences through the past year, my victories and my struggles. Ideally, I would build on what worked and put some strategies in place to help avoid the inevitable rough spots in the future. In years past, this exercise usually amounts to nothing more than a quick debate in my head about whether or not to bother making resolutions. The typical ones come up… Eat healthier, exercise more, stop procrastinating and quit smoking. I’ve made those year after year and something in me just refuses to take the list seriously. The procrastinator in me believes that I will take those things more seriously next year. I won’t kid you into believing that this year will be any different. I should add stop being stubborn to the list. But that would add more pressure and just one more thing to put off for another day…
There’s also the outward examination. I look in the mirror. This exercise is becoming more painful as time passes.
I see the beginnings of wrink (ok, who am I kidding?) I see the wrinkles deepening around my eyes and mouth . The gray hair taking over and the results of Mr. Gravity wreaking havoc on the rest of me. The freckles on the backs of my hands aren’t freckles anymore (how does that happen?) It takes me a little longer to bound out of bed in the morning and I don’t run up and down the steps as I always have. “Things” aren’t so firm and toned. My skin requires constant hydrating to prevent it from taking on alligator characteristics… I have to constantly remind myself to stand up straight. It’s wearing me out!
Yeah, it’s bleak. And if you’re behind me in age, I apologize if I’m scaring you to death. But it’s a fact of life and it is frightening and I’m smack-dab in the middle of a panic. I see so many women my age who seem to be just fine with where they are in life. Of course, they’ve dyed the gray away in their hair. Maybe they go to the gym faithfully. Maybe they’ve had or are contemplating tummy-tucks and some facial reconstruction. Maybe they’ve already experienced my panic and chose to take steps to fix things. Maybe they just don’t care.
The experiences my mom has endured this past year has forced me to look at my own stuff in a way I never have. When I look at her, I see me in the future and I get panicky. I don’t wanna be frail. I don’t wanna depend on other people to do things for me. I don’t want to become bitter. I don’t want to become bitter. More than anything I don’t want to become bitter.
This might be the year that I change things. Time is going to pass no matter what. Aging is inevitable. We’re born, we live, we die. But I don’t want to become bitter.
Let me say that I hate this post. It’s not what I wanted to say but I’m trying to work through this. It’s giving me a hard time and I can’t hold it in.