The Obligatory Statement of Purpose
I face the inevitable individually as surely as the quagga, the auroch, the scimitar cat, and the tule shrew faced it collectively. There’s no way to paint, excise, or medicate my way out of the ultimate conclusion.
I’m not “chronologically challenged,” and, unless I outlive Jeanne Calment (1875-1997), I’m not middle-aged.
While that undisguised fact is plain to see, acknowledging it is like admitting to an obnoxious personal habit that gives perpetual offense, or owning up to a persistent vice for which there is neither a cure nor a twelve-step program.
This is particularly obvious since I am a woman, and thus, a double object of cultural disdain. I gather that I’m supposed to accept one of two narrow and unattractive choices: either fight aging, as the purveyors of makeup, plastic surgery, hormone therapy, and dietary supplements advertise that I should do; or shut up and disappear so that others won’t have to be reminded that if they outlive their natural youth, they will also come to this transition.
The thing is, I feel fine, don’t care about aging gracefully (what does that mean?), and I’m not quite done yet.
I started this journal as an unsentimental record of aging as ungracefully as possible.
I plan to enjoy it, and hope you will, too.