On Instagram "Influencers" and Getting Old

Once upon a time—not too long ago—I viewed so called Instagram "Influencers" (you know, gorgeous young men who don't seem to have an actual job other than to travel the world taking shirtless selfies in exotic locations) with an equal part disgust and envy. (Probably more envy than disgust, TBH.) But I had a sort of epiphany, and that was, "You go gurl! Work it like you own it for as long as you can. Your perfect skin, your immaculately trimmed beard, your perky nips, fuzzy pecs, sculpted abs and continually-bulging speedo may allow you to skate through life now, but they—like your youth—won't last forever. You might as well get as much out of it while you can, because one day you're going to walk past a mirror and see an old man staring back at you and wonder how he got in your house and where the last thirty years went."

Spoken like a true curmudgeon on the eve of his sixty-first birthday, amiright?

While I never considered myself good looking—even in my twenties and thirties—I still managed to attract enough men into my life whom I considered good looking, and if the technology had been available then, I too might've posted gratuitous photos of myself and my friends like the current generation is doing. I think it's something in the human psyche that allows us to pretend we're not really getting older—until something happens to slap us in the face and force us to realize we aren't going to be 25 forever. For me it was the cancer diagnosis at 45, and while I came though the ordeal for the most part intact, it did force a total psychological reevaluation of my life that allowed me to prioritize what was really important and to open a space into in my heart that Ben would eventually come to occupy; something for which I will be be eternally grateful.

Everything for a reason, as they say.

But even after that, I've remained in a certain state of denial about this whole aging thing. Even when I turned 60 last year, it was no big deal. This year, however, I'm really starting to feel those decades catching up with me. Even admitting my age on this here blog thingie is a big deal; for the last fifteen years like any proper lady, I've preferred to maintain an air of mystery regarding the actual number. But fuck it all. "I am who I am" and all that. Retirement—something I never gave much thought to (to my detriment)—is only a few short years away, a milestone that screams, "You're OLD" like nothing else.

I suppose that's where a lot of that envy of these so-called influencers comes from. I've been lucky in that for most of my adult life I'd been judged to be ten years younger than I actually was. It's still happening, (people at work thought I was in my early 50s), but when I look in the mirror or see photographs of myself, all I see is old and more and more of my father (who I didn't resemble at all when I was younger) coming out with each passing year.

Still, despite confronting that stranger in the mirror every morning, I am thankful to still be above ground, and every day that I remain so is a good one. And while I may not be shaking my booty in the clubs on the weekends or traveling the world showing off a gym-toned physique, I did have my own time in the sun, and truth be told, I did work it for all it was worth—even if I wasn't conscious of doing it.

So you go gurls. Work it. Work it for all it's worth, so when you look back on the memories it will bring a smile to your face as mine do for me.