PERSONAL ESSAY

I’ve Turned Into…My Grandmother.

And my mirror can prove it

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Oh, God.

I was driving my daughter home from school the other day and I said it. Straight-faced and serious.

“When I was in school I had to walk through the snow up hills and back both ways.”

She stopped for a moment and stared at me. Then I realized. I quickly followed up with, “I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth!” We both burst out laughing, tears in our eyes, as the rain beat heavily on the windshield.

“Okay, Grandma!” she replied.

The sad thing is, I am one white whisker away from being my towhead grandmother. White and silver streaks cascading down the sides of my hair — and, indeed. I am ashamed to admit I have been plucking snow-white hairs out of my old lady chin.

I’m proud to say the curtains do not match the drapes. Thank God.

Aging is a wild ride. What with menopause, crepey chest skin, fat rolls that won’t go away, and absolutely no sex drive — which may or may not be related — I have reached middle age with wild abandon.

We’re talking real middle age. Not the middle age we say we are in our mid-30s. Actual middle age. Middle age on the cusp of — gasp — elderly.