N OTHING LIKE THE dawn of a new year to make a middle-aged person think of, well, aging. Gracefully or otherwise, I always say it’s better than the alternative (no one has ever accused me of sentimentality, in case you’re wondering) but that doesn’t mean that I always enjoy stark reminders of the ever-present physical (and emotional) changes wrought by the passing of time. A couple of days ago, one of those stark reminders arrived, of all places, in my mailbox.
My passport expired in December. It had lain unused in a desk drawer since the spring of 2001, when, heavily pregnant with the River, I traveled first to Berlin, where I produced a movie, and then later to Paris and Normandy, where the H celebrated the premiere of a television project he co-wrote. It was a big year for me, travelwise, and then: parenthood, and stick-in-the-States-stasis arrived. Our kids didn’t even have passports, and the H’s had also expired, so in the interest of a trip to at the very least Canada (not to malign Canada, I like Canada, don’t get your maple-leaf knickers in a twist) we decided to march ourselves down to the post office and passport away.
I didn’t think too much more about the whole thing until my new passport, and my canceled passport, arrived in the mail the other day. The old passport had stapled into it a copy of the new picture I had taken that December day, which meant that I had a document that showed, in stunning detail, the passage of ten years, all in my own slightly smirky face. I went to put both old and new into the file where I keep all our documents, and found my even older passport, the one I hurriedly obtained in June of 1989, when I was 23, and living in New York, working my first “real” job. I needed it for an impromptu trip to Kenya with three dear friends. That passport is full of stamps from Germany, Kenya, the Phillippines, France, Thailand…hard evidence that though I’m not the world’s biggest adventurer, I did once go unexpected places and see unforeseen things.
The other hard evidence is in those faces: the 23-year-old is soft and tentative, the 33-year-old (I was at the top point of my television career then, working hard but seeing the fruits of my labors) confident and direct. The 43-year-old? She looks a little tired and exasperated to me–exactly what I would expect of a mother who’s been corralling two kids and a husband through a 45-minute session of paperwork and photographs at the local P.O.
I think a lot about aging these days. Isn’t that inevitable in your 40s, when your joints are starting to creak and you suddenly cannot get by on less than eight hours of sleep, and there’s more gray in your hair than before. (There was no gray at 23; it all started when I went to graduate school at 25, and by the time that 33-year-old pic was taken, I was well into the [hair dye] bottle, where I plan to stay for at least the next 10 years.)
My husband saw this lineup and said (kindly, I thought) that the most amazing thing to him was how little I’ve actually changed. And maybe he’s right. Somehow, along with the lines in my face, what I see in those pictures is that whatever, whoever, I am, the core of me is more or less the same now as it was 20 years ago, and it might even be better. (The knees? The belly? Not so much.)
Do you see evidence of your own changes, or those of your sisters? Chime in, and tell us what you think.
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I am not answering your question, but now that you have passports you and John and the kids should go to Montreal for a long weekend. I KNOW you have that issue of Gourmet from a couple of years ago that proclaimed Montreal the best food city in North America. You will be in heaven because you will think you are in Europe when you go to the markets.
My sister and I are in our mid and late twenties, but we are already marveling over our bodies’ changes. Things are changing and shifting! It’s nice to have someone going through it with you, though. As always, she understands! :)
Today, I turn 47. My body is about the only thing behaving badly.
I think I’m getting jowls.
Every month brings changes now… and a fierce admiration for the those elderly women that maintain fabulous lives , smiling, and giving and making friends with their wearing out shells.
i have the word acceptance tatted on my forehead, hey, at least i am alive, and how i love this life of mine, the sun has left me spotted and and faded, the back shrieks when it sees the shovel, but, i still keep going, i just stay away from the mirror, and people who insist on closeups with the flash, eeekkkk!!!! Just enjoy your family, your accomplishments, and life!!! oxoxx a sister, in her 50′s and still believing the best is yet to come, really!!
Was at the flea market the other day where I heard a guy say when he wakes up seeing the tips and not the roots, he knows it’s a good day.
Made me laugh — and also know that aging is okay when the alternative is considered.
Found myself, while peering in the mirror for a moment today considering injectibles — something I would never have thought of considering my feminist upbringing, and would never admit to my 18 year old daughter.
Not gonna do it — gonna be brave and see how I turn out in the end, naturally.
And you, my friend, are still quite beautiful — and John is right — you have changed very little.
Do you frequent Ann Leary’s blog? I think she might be a neighbor of yours — and someone I could see you being friends with, if you aren’t already.
xoxox
V
Oh Paige stop that!
Do you know what I thought when I saw your passport photos? I was marveling at how much more beautiful you become over the years.
Yes, the 33 year old Paige looks more direct, but the 43 year old realizes the world is more complex and nuanced, and has experienced and understands much more of what life has to offer.
I hope you go visit Canada already! (I’d send you to Newfoundland, in case you are interested)
I remember the 3 year old Paige. You have aged gracefully! I am 55 now and still the middle sister. There were times I would have given anything to be an only child. My two granddaughters (Conner, 12 & Cadence, 6) live with me. Sometimes they keep me young and at others they make me feel my age–and then some!