Late Bloomer

While sitting with a friend at the bar on Friday night, it occurred to me that, yes, with the coming of 40, I’ve finally hit the age where all those things that people have told me “You’ll be grateful for that later in life” are all starting to pay off.

Like having fair skin. I’m fair to the point of phosphorescence. And I’ve avoided the sun like a vampire on spring break, just because I go from zero to sunburn in minutes. And all these years, I’d have loved to have had golden, sun-kissed, beach goddess skin. But fish belly white has kind of been my lot in life. But now, I probably look a few years younger because I haven’t had all that sun damage. Sweet. Not that it was any real comfort to me when I was 17, but didn't work out so bad after all.

And I don’t know how many times older women told me, “You’ll be glad of the small cup size when you get older.” And after years of not finding bras that fit, or shirts, or bathing suits, or formal dresses, and having to pay for my own drinks, dammit, I kind of finally actually am pretty happy with how things have turned out. My boobs may be small, but they’re almost in the same place as they were when I first got them. Never having flunked the pencil test, I can tell gravity, “Poof, be gone! You have no power here.”

And there are lots of other little things that are kind of turning up jackpot late in the game. I’ve had crow’s feet since I was 18, so the wrinkle creep isn’t quite as traumatic as it would have been. Mousey brown hair doesn’t show gray. I’ve never been able to rely on my looks to get by, so I’m not trying to develop a brain, a personality and a sense of humor at this late date.

Dang, I think I’ve finally reached cruising altitude.