Confessions of a 50 Year Old Chameleon

Turning 50 is scary. Incredibly scary. Despite all of the self talk in which I try to convince myself that I am "fine like wine and better with age", I find myself talking a big lie. I talk the talk but sure as hell don't talk the talk.

Who am I trying to convince and the bigger question is "Why?" Why do I care about what anyone thinks about me? That is the stuff made for the minds of teenage girls who starve themselves and paint their faces to look like twenty year olds. Yet I find myself, after all of these years, riding the conformity train with my wrinkle creams and hair coloring as I write poems about truth and being genuine. I revel in comments such as "You look like you're in your thirties". (Yes...hiding gray hair does that). What if someone said "You look to be around 50 or so"? Would I feel insulted? Is being 50 such an embarrassment?

I've got so much wisdom and experience packed into these 50 year old bones. I could write a book on that alone, but would anyone read it? How about a book called "Accepting Your Age", or "Dancing with the Gray" or "Ravishing With Wrinkles"? These titles make even me cringe because they are a reminder of something that we are taught to believe is a negative happening.

We grow up either looking back or hoping for better. We cover up and hide who we are. Rarely do we relish the moment. As a Southern girl, I was taught to be sweet, don't make waves, quietly submit, do what I must to fit in and be liked...and I have over and over again. I've been a chameleon most of my life. Being a quick change artist has taken me to some lofty places as well as straight into the gutter, and at the end of the day, I had no idea who the real me was.

We talk about being modern, liberated women at the same time we botox and work our butts off for "stuff" that serve no purpose other than to make us feel like we have value. We rationalize all that we do to improve ourselves by telling ourselves it is fine if it makes us feel better about ourselves.