Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Some of the photos from my birthday bash are arriving via email. One friend, in particular, took 65 pictures of the event; which is probably more photos than I’ve personally taken in a lifetime. Nevertheless, the photos are a wonderful record of a wonderful day.

One thing I am struck with, however, is how much I’ve aged over the years. I would never have classified myself as a great beauty, but the past 20 years or so have certainly solidified my membership in the unremarkable category.

My hair is dull, my chin sags, my shape is amorphous. Yet, from the inside looking out I feel as if I were just turning 30 instead of twice that. I feel cute, clever, casual; not flabby, fat, or frumpy.

I plan to continue thinking of myself as the former instead of the latter. At the same time, reality forces me to realize that when I walk down a street, I am almost invisible because my physical attributes are those of an older woman instead of a young chick.

What is really sobering is that, instead of relying on looks (if I ever did), I need to rely on more substantive things. Like being kind, being loyal, being funny, being there for family and friends alike. It’s a sobering thought. At the same time, it’s liberating, because I can be what I really am instead of some plastic personification.

There is a poem entitled “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple.” It describes the eccentricities of the author, noting that now she can do whatever she wishes. I understand this fully, and I plan to do the same.

With or without physical beauty, I am what I am.