Image courtesy of: Imagerymajestic
We get used to feeling slightly crappy until less than, becomes our new normal. Less sleep. Less energy. Less joy. The maintenance of blah to speak. Soon enough we forget laughing and vitality is the natural state of being.
I confess.
Fully embracing sags, wrinkles and grays is for the more enlightened among us.
Mind you I’m not having a nervous breakdown over aging either, yet. I’m 47. Tell your age. I beg you. No one can change The Number so let’s strip The Number of shame.
My overriding principle is that figuring out what makes us happy makes those around us happier. The much maligned selfish molecule has a higher if not immediately seen purpose.
While I’m new-age with yoga, baked tofu, greens and chia seeds, I’ll continue to live the impractical of bad habits: spiked-heels, soft Brie, great red wine, filets, occasional french fries and Twizzlers.
I’m an unapologetic hedonist because I wouldn’t be nice as an apologetic martyr. I’m also not dishonest enough to pretend my vanity is fading with aging acceptance. In fact, it’s just getting started.
I hate to diet, love to exercise. I figure what I’ve lost in muscle tone, I’ve gained in tenacity to feel good, in wisdom about who and what is worth the sweat. This seems a reasonable trade-off until I see Megan Fox in a string bikini and then I’m not so convinced inner peace doesn’t include table top abs, upright breasts and a toned butt.
More than anything I believe joy comes from adjusting the reigns of our own heart, hands and mind. No doctor, friend, employer, spouse, parent or child can steer our happiness; they can only come along for the ride.
