Get With the Program

My 35 year old daughter phoned me the other afternoon from a cell phone in her car. She was in a state of panic.

“What’s the matter Abby?” I asked, fearing some horrible thing had happened on the road.

“I just found a grey eyebrow hair,” she cried. “A grey eyebrow hair!!”

“You did this while driving?”

“No. Darrell’s driving. Mom, did you hear me? I found a grey eyebrow hair.”

I laughed. “I heard you.”

“It’s not funny, Mom. I still want to have another baby.”

“I fail to understand the connection, honey.”

“Now I’m too old.”

I laughed harder.

“I promise you Abby, you have nothing to worry about. In fact, just this morning I heard a news report. Scientists have proven conclusively that contrary to popular belief, there is absolutely no connection between grey eyebrow hairs and a woman’s ability to conceive.”

“But Mom. It means I’m getting old.”

“Honey, did you forget who you’re talking to?”

She caught me sitting in front of a high powered magnifying mirror plucking chin hairs; some as long as an inch, mostly all grey. Several of the remaining dark ones had winked at me as though to say, “it’s only a matter of time.”

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart. It doesn’t mean a thing. Women much older than you are having babies today.”

The Jolene bleach across my upper lip had begun to dry, crack and fall onto my lap.

“Besides, I promise you, age is just a state of mind. You know how strongly I believe that.”

“I know. I’m glad I called you, Mom. I feel better now. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.” I was glad she felt better. Now who could I call for the same quick fix?

I hung up and sat quietly inspecting the increasing number of laugh wrinkles around my eyes, (What idiot decided to name them that?) and the soft jowls that had altered the shape of my face. I checked out the isolated strands of grey that, like weeds on otherwise lovely sod, had managed to push through my very recent bleach job. I inspected the skin on my arms that now resembled that of a reptile’s. When Abby was six years old she had said to my mother, who was roughly my current age, “Grandma, how come your neck skin looks like a turtle’s?” My mother had smiled, but I knew she felt bad.

I felt so lucky. Not only had I survived and passed hot flashes with honors, but I was fortunate to be my age at a time in history when aging is fashionable.

Just look at television commercials. Grandma and grandpa are no longer rocking and whittling; they’re jitterbugging, jogging and even kissing. We are not viewed as sad victims of aging but as valued individuals with experience and wisdom. We are embracing, laughing at, and even thumbing our noses at the aging process.

Notice some of the T shirts you pass on 50 plus women in the mall. I saw one that read, “I’m out of estrogen and I’ve got a gun.” And the next time you’re in a book store, look at some of the titles, like Boomer Babes, and Menopause Madness.

Abby is still too young to value the benefits of aging. I hope that when she reaches my age she will recognize and appreciate the revolutionary road my generation has paved for her. And, above all, I would like to believe that she will get with the program and dye her eyebrows like any 50 plus woman worth her weight in estrogen would do.