Autumn Migration

“I entered upon a life unimagined previously, of happiness impossible to youth or to the years of being constantly needed both at home and at work. I entered into a period of freedom…”

— Carolyn Heilbrun, from her book The Last Gift of Time

This is what I think about aging: I think aging is a marvelous journey into uncharted territory. Heilbrun’s right, you know, this is our time of new freedom and discovery. And I’d like to go on record right now and state that I’m very much in favor of aging and think we should all participate fully and for as long as we want to.

However, I take exception with all the articles appearing in many popular media about certain aspects of aging. Maybe you’ve read some of these articles? These are the ones in which the author says, “Well, I may be sixty, seventy, eighty or one hundred twenty years old, but gosh, I still feel like
a kid inside. I still feel about twenty or so… I do not feel the weight of my years at all.”

Or sixty is the new forty.

Phooey, I say. I feel the weight of my years every day — but that’s not to say I mind the weight. I choose to carry the years lightly and to poke fun at their accumulation every chance I get. For I believe aging can be fun. Aging is a circus adventure of mind, body and spirit. Why, every day, one can expect something new and unexpected to come along.

For instance, right now, I’m thinking about pubic hair. Pubic hair as it relates to aging — not to get off topic. (My name is not Kim so this is neither a sex blog or an expose).

No one ever told me that one of the more magical aspects of aging is discovering that one’s pubic hair departs its home port and undertakes a voyage of discovery and colonization. This is a fact. As a woman of a certain age, let me assure you that this is true.

One’s pubic hair migrates from one’s nether regions, crosses the round continent of abdomen, transverses the small valley between twin hillocks of breast, scales the steep slope of neck and re-establishes a colony on one’s chin and upper lip.

You laugh, but this is fact.

Occasionally, a hair gets separated from the colony and appears alone on ear of cheek, but this is inadvertent, I believe, for this solo hair grows to great lengths, trying to reach and reunite with its sisters. It is lonely. It pines for company.

The journey must make place at night, in the small quiet hours when no one’s about, when no one’s awake to not the march of the public hairs. I’ve tried to stay the press of sleep to observe this journey, as I’d rather hoped I might interest National Geographic in an article covering the rigors faced by the migrating hairs as they bravely cross mountain and valley in their migration North, but I’ve never been able to fight Morpheus long enough to witness and photograph their passage.

And I’m rather too shy if National Geographic were to offer the services of one of their staff photographers or video people.

But nonetheless, observed, recorded or not, there in the morning, the stalwart little hairs have appeared upon chin and lip. Resting content in their new home.

Hello! Good morning! So nice to see you in the mirror, oh bearded one. And how sweet to see a matching mustache. Maybe this new facial hair is Nature’s way to camouflage lip lines and crevices?

And oh nether region, aren’t you looking positively youthful and pre-adolescent this morning, unadorned as you are?

Okay, now I get it. Now I understand why those writers dwell on not feeling their age. It’s not about feeling their age, but about not looking their age. I, too, don’t feel or look my age. I feel rather like a twelve year old myself today as I match mood with appearance. Appearance of Mound of Venus, that is.

Mound of Venus — what a vivid term. Makes me feel all Greek and Goddess-like. As though I should be wearing a flowing Grecian gown and have little dove’s wings sprouting from my heels. Is that Mercury? Or Hermes? No, Hermes is a maker of fine leather goods.

Must be a sign of aging or uninformed youthfulness when one mixes one’s Greek Gods, Goddesses and leather manufacturers.

Of course, I know who I am — I am the mature Aphrodite! Aphrodite revealed. Aphrodite bearded.

See what I mean? Aging is a true adventure. One day you’re aging, the next day a downy-chinned, pubicly-challenged Love Goddess eligible for AARP.

You’ve gotta love it. Or shave it — I’m not sure which.