I was recently face down on a rolling bed, fingering the thin fabric of my hospital gown, and getting a scan of my insides.   The headphones sent waves of Taylor Swift, with a few muffled interruptions by the technician telling me to hold my breath.  But I could only focus on the sting from the doctor’s words that morning: at your age.

Hrrumph.  Really?  Had it finally come to that?  Apparently, I had been skating along gracefully all these years until I slid into the cement wall face first that morning.

There were many moments along the way that had, sadly, strengthened my little illusion.  There was the afternoon I spent at Sephora agonizing over whether I had fine lines, wrinkles, sagging, dehydration, or age spots.  Which was my worst enemy?  And was I correcting or preventing?  Or rediscovering my youthful strength?  Should I smear diamond flecks or gold particles on?  Could I afford either?  Overwhelmed by anxiety, I took one last look at the mirror, and decided my most pressing problem was the teenage-quality pimple on my chin.  I left to find some Clearasil.

And there was the ophthalmologist who forgot to write my power levels on my prescription.  Even though I was never able to get contact lenses as a result, I have a soft spot for him.  For in the dead of winter pallor and holiday party nutrition, he looked deep into my eyes and asked if I was a student.  Yes, my eyes had the health of a twenty year-old.  I suppose I should have asked if he meant graduate student, but I took the leap of faith in my favor.

And of course, my mother-in-law was part of the psychosis.  Every invitation to join her and her friends out in the suburbs on a Saturday night ended with a plea for attendance by the “youngsters.”  She meant me.  And my group of middle-aged friends.  So naturally I raced out the door in my sparkly shoes and Hello Kitty bag, only too happy to comply.

In my mind, the day of reckoning would arrive when I turned about seventy-two, and would have to stop going to Power Zen Spinning Boot Camp Fusion.  Unfortunately, my physician brought that dream to a halt a few decades sooner than expected.

So it seems I have no choice but to embrace reality, and embark on the journey as a mature adult.  Except I suddenly remember a business meeting a few weeks ago.  I had just expressed my surprise at the easy transition to the time zone of our meeting location.  One of the men turned to me and said, “Well, at your age.”