I’m pushing 50. Actually, I’ll be 48 in August, but I might as well go ahead and say I’m almost 50. I’m not afraid of a number and definitely not ashamed. I have more energy than I’ve ever had because for the most part, I eat right, take supplements and sleep well. I’m in good physical shape and can still wear the same size from my high school and a smaller size than my college years (especially the post-freshman 15). It comes from daily commitment and intention to live a long, healthy life for myself and those I love.
However, this morning as I prepare for my day, a not-so-gentle reminder of my age hits me as I sit in the sink, putting on my moisturizer and makeup. It’s a long black hair poking out of my chin, and I’ve decided to name him Carlos. I have no reason for this name so do not ask. He sticks out of my chin in an area that I can’t easily spot. It’s as if I can find it only after a full moon in just-right-light because by the time I spot it, it’s about three inches long. Good grief. Carlos shows up to remind me that there are some things I have no control over like long pubic hairs coming out of my chin. When I get past 60, perhaps I’ll dye Carlos a bright blue to clash with my purple dress and red hat, but for now, I’ll pluck him out. Fuera de aqui, Carlos, you little stinker.