aging

There is a distinct moment in each woman’s life when gray hair and the associated reality of aging make its first unwelcome appearance.

I’m turning 40 in April. I am mostly at peace with the looming milestone birthday, but every once in a while, the gravity of it all hits me.

I have refused to let my age define how I am supposed to behave as a mother, as a chef, as a writer, and most importantly as a woman.

Can you partake in the beauty industry — makeup, tutorials, magazines, and the oppressive standards they impose — and still feel good about your self-worth?

That summer became the fulcrum of a seesaw: as my children need me less, my mother needed me more. My mother's arthritis taught me to love and let go.

Obviously, now from my elder perch, I realize it’s best to withhold judgment, especially contempt for actions that bring personal joy at life stages you haven’t reached yet. (Though I’m still not married and get cranky that women are taking their husband’s last names more so than twenty years ago.)

When men’s dating preferences were observed, the age of women they expressed interest in never (never!) deviated from the early 20s.