I've had many interesting conversations lately with midlife women about claiming OUR space between attractiveness and authenticity as we age. Intellectually, I understand the paradox of beauty and aging because I was introduced to the beautifying of women at a very young age. I grew up surrounded by QUEENS-beautiful strong women. I mean visibly stunning and smart women.
Last month, I turned 58. As in 'years old.' Fifty. Eight. I don't care who you are, 58 is no longer "young." Body parts have shifted downwards. Skin has lost its memory yarn. Thighs ripple when we're standing still. Once-defined triceps now flap like sheets on a clothesline. Weight has moved into our hips and bellies with the tenacity of squatters on the back 40 of the Ponderosa.