Hiding under the Gray

me in Dec 1955

Gave my heart quite a jolt today. I was trimming some hair near the nape of my neck to send in for a hair follicle test (don't ask); the sample had to be close to the root. So I clipped up my hair, grabbed a little clump underneath, took the scissors, and SNIP, off it came. I brought it around to the front to place it in the sample envelope, and I gasped. I was visibly shaken. There it was, a 6 inch long strand of hair, not my original strawberry blonde, or blonde gray, or even brownish gray...gray. When in the world did this happen? The front and topside of my hair still has blonde streaks, and is light grayish blonde, I know intellectually hair underneath is going to be darker, and no I do not dye my hair, but really? Gray? I actually dropped it, I was so startled. It was truly a defining moment for me.

Believe me, I have no delusions of looking eternally youthful and dewy fresh, nor do I even want to, and the thought of plastic surgery to remove all the wrinkles and age spots I have worked so hard for makes me laugh (and at least I can still laugh...some of those women in Hollywood definitely cannot even move their mouths or eyebrows let alone laugh!). I see evidence of my aging every single day, sometimes several times a day,  I see it as I struggle to put on my compression socks over my varicose vein covered legs, and reach for my nice comfortable shoes (and sometimes my knee brace). I see it when I notice gravity is winning the war against every body part...soon I will be just one big rectangle. Arthritis, age spots, wrinkles, stiff joints, all these things I've been dealing with as gracefully as one can, plus some other things I never knew about like "vitreous gel detachment." That is the gel substance behind your eyeball and as you get older it dries up, shrinks, and eventually detaches from the back of the eye, and you suddenly get about 100 new little black floaters in your vision. Fun city. I deal with all this stuff. I know my body has an expiration date. 

But what floors me is it happened so quickly and took me by surprise. One minute I was a mom, a senior NCO, just doing my own thing, opening doors for older ladies and being polite and nice but not really seeing them like they were ever young once, and then BAM it happens to me. But inside, I am still me, the same me I have been all along, with all those experiences and memories and little tidbits to share. Same personality, same sarcasm and biting wit, same highly sensitive "cry at the drop of a hat" Barbara, same person with all the baggage I have been carrying all these years, but now it is all blended together, a much improved version. I want to scream out "I am still in here, I am still ME".  All of my younger Barbaras are behind the face in the mirror, the face others see right now. I am an amalgamation. Wow! Folks are getting a 67 for 1 deal...67 Barbaras for the price of 1! (I do realize that may frighten some of you).

This realization that getting older is no longer just some nebulous point sometime in the future, but it is happening now, hit me hard. Because now, at 67, I know I am not immortal. I am positive over half of my life is over (oh come on now...I am not being morbid...no one lives to be 140 anymore). More than ever, time IS precious, too precious to waste. I might have 30 more years, or 30 more minutes, and there is a lot I have to do during my remaining time. Like weigh what my driver's license says. Some of it I have already accomplished, like establishing healthy boundaries, eating sushi, raising chickens. Finally not being ashamed of who I was, or who I am, or what I did in the past. Jesus has taken care of all that for me. We have a deal. God gave me his wonderful grace, grace I do not deserve. Whatever else God has in His plans for me, I know He has marked out the sufficient number of minutes, hours, days, or years for me to complete them to glorify Him.  My gray hair "is a crown of glory gained in a righteous life." 

Older women, as a rule, are not frail, or forgetful, or silly. Most of us hate being called "sweetie" or "dearie" by anyone under the age of 60. 

We were all young once. And many of us still are young, we are just in an older body. John Prine wrote a song, "Hello in there," I first heard Joan Baez sing back in the 60s (some of you are probably googling those two artists right now). 

Awesome lyrics--the last line sums it up: 

So if you're walking down the street sometime 

And spot some hollow ancient eyes

Please don't just pass 'em by and stare

As if you didn't care

Say Hello in there, Hello