Beauty and Aging

“Who would ever want to live beyond age 50?” I said so many times as an adolescent. “There’s nothing to live for when you’re that old.”

The world of youth was mine and when I viewed my grandparents and their friends—the world of wrinkles, gray and balding hair, thick waistlines and potbellies, slowed and tottery paces, out-of-style clothing, and a myriad of other perceived ugliness—I shuddered. Not me! I wanted to be gone before 50.

Fortunately the gods took no action on my immature, arrogant declaration. Today, twenty-three years past my youthful self-imposed deadline for living, I am now what my younger self would definitely call “old.” Lately I have had some interesting conversations with her.

After looking closely at my wrinkles one afternoon, her own soft complexion clear and smooth, she crinkles her nose and asks, “Don’t you hate all those wrinkles?”

I smile at her, aware of the lines that immediately form at my eyes’ outer edges. “I look at my wrinkles often,” I tell her, “and I’ve grown to feel only respect for each and every one. I can tell you stories about each wrinkle, the joys that caused my laugh lines, the sorrows that caused the frown lines. They reflect much of my life’s story and remind me to deeply honor the journey that brought me to this place, this day. I am so grateful for my life—all of it.”

“But, what about those scars on your chin? You must detest them!” she insists, raising one dark, carefully plucked eyebrow.

“Well, that car accident took me as close to dying as I will before I actually do die and I used to feel self-conscious about them. They changed my appearance, but I accept them now because they remind me I was given a second chance at life, enough to learn how much I treasure life. I can never hate them.”

Her brown eyes suddenly become mischievous as she tosses her head, throwing her glistening reddish-brown hair over her shoulder. “Well, then, what about all that gray hair you have? Why on earth don’t you dye it like most other women do?”

“Sure is a lot of gray these days,” I acknowledge, squeezing my soft, permed curls. “Most all my friends color their hair, and I know my hairdresser would love to color mine, but I’ve just never been interested. When silver strands began appearing, at first I’d smile and say I’d earned every one. Now I’m fascinated at how different I look with this frame of gray hair curling down to my shoulders and my lighter eyebrows. Sometimes I think I don’t know the woman I see in the mirror but then I’m reminded that my appearance is simply a reflection of the growth and challenges I’ve been so committed to all my life. I honor that woman for all that has brought her to today.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, tugging at the waistline of her size four jeans. Here’s something I absolutely know you loathe. You’ve battled your weight and waistline all your life. You’re losing the battle, you know!”

“Yes, I am.” I smile with amusement as I recall abhorring the small imperfections of my body. “I wanted fewer inches around my waist, smaller feet, nicer toenails, more shapely legs—so many superficial things that never really mattered. I still don’t have them but these days I focus on all that my body has given me and I can’t possibly think anything negative. These days I care for it lovingly just as it is, including those extra inches.”

She goes to the kitchen, moves lithely and gracefully, returning with tall glasses of water for us. “You don’t run around as fast as you used to,” she tells me. “I see you ease up out of your chair and take those first few steps pretty stiffly.”

“You’re right,” I agree. “Yet, each time I feel stiff, I’m reminded that I want to age with grace and dignity. So I accept and embrace those moments.”

Then I close my eyes and lift my face upward and ponder how richly filled is my life with the hard-won wisdom and work that have transformed me from the sweet but naïve young woman near me to this woman I have become today.

“I feel so joyous and peaceful and more beautiful than I ever did when I was young and attractive by the world’s standards,” I tell her.

She opens her arms to me and we embrace.

(This piece was originally published in May, 2006 in The Senior Voice in Dallas, TX. I was enjoying it again recently.)


About Mary Jo Doig

Mary Jo Doig was the first in her family to attend college and graduated from the State University at Oneonta in New York’s Catskill Mountains with a degree in Secondary English Education/Educational Psychology. There she fell in love with rural life, remained, and eventually transitioned from city girl to country woman when she married a dairy farmer and raised their three children on their small family farm. A life-long lover of reading and writing, Mary Jo has for nearly twenty years been a member of the Story Circle Network. There she has been an editor, a women’s writing circle facilitator, a book reviewer, and life-writing enthusiast, working extensively with women writing their life-stories while writing her own memoir. Presently, she is a three-time Program Chair for SCNs national Stories from the Heart conference and a board member. She also facilitates Older Women’s Legacy workshops and a women’s life-writing circle in her area communities. Her stories have appeared in Kitchen Table Stories anthology, Story Circle Annual Anthologies, and most recently her story “I Can’t Breathe” was published in the Anthology, Inside and Out: Women’s Truths, Women’s Stories. Her work also appears in varied blogs and periodicals, on her blog Musings from a Patchwork Quilt Life (, Facebook, and Twitter. Her son and two daughters grown, Mary Jo presently treasures her country life in Virginia’s Central Shenandoah Valley. She loves cooking (and eating!) healthy food, reading, writing, quilting, hiking, and spending quality time with her rescue cats, Button and Xena, and beagle, Addie, who each dream of being only children. Her first book, Patchwork: A Memoir of Love and Loss, will be published in October, 2018 by She Writes Press.
This entry was posted in Aging, Change, Gratitude, Health, Mystery. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Beauty and Aging

  1. Learning to embrace – in the moment – stiffness rising from a chair … this is a profound life lesson! You put it into perspective nicely. Aging absoutely beats the alternative.


  2. Mary Jo Doig says:

    Ah, you make me laugh with your last sentence, Jazz. So true. Thank you for your thoughtful comments.


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