Author: Christine Elias

Today I went on a two-hour walk. I was running errands and decided to do all of them on foot. Felt good after. But when I got home, I washed up and noticed something different.
I discovered (what I think is) a new wrinkle. Sometimes when I point out new wrinkles to my friend K she laughs her head off.

Me: Look at this. Is it a new wrinkle?
K: That is not a wrinkle.
Me: Look! (I make a face to highlight said new unwanted facial crease and draw nearer and into better light.)
K: Well, if you scrunch up you face like that I see something. Just don’t do that, anymore. Silly.
Me: Okay. (Then I go home and do just that face in mirror just to check on its progress.)

They say after 40 you can choose your ass or your face. I have been choosing my face, letting my ass take care of itself. But now I am thinking we can indeed choose our bodies. Our faces are pretty much genetics. I have good face genes; am lucky I guess. And in jeans, my bum looks fine but could be a bit less ample.

I also wore my chilled face mask again today. It helps with the under eye puffiness I never used to have until very recently. (My doctor told me it’s gravity and I should try to change my sleeping position; easier said than done, I might add.)

Hello middle-age. I welcome you! Bring it on. I am ready.

Everyone is exercising. No, I don’t mean that as some grand sweeping statement.
Everyone I know is exercising. They all are spinning, stretching, lunging and pushup-ing. A lot.

Last week, I had lunch with two of my oldest friends. Both have personal trainers. It is something I expected of neither. How times have changed.

Heck, one of them used to smoke (only sometimes) and the other one used to eat all kinds of things that barely made it into the four food groups. Yet, there we were talking about our routines. Or I should say, they were. I was enjoying my lobster bisque and trying to change the subject — with little success.

And this week I had dinner with some other girlfriends (part of the same circle) who all also exercise with apparent enthusiasm.

Of this circle, I am the only one. The only one who does not exercise with a capital E.

Yes, I walk a lot — but not at power speeds. And yes, I eat very well. But I don’t sweat profusely three times a week.

I am still cute (and yet, still charmingly modest) and look younger than my age — on the outside, my pancreas my not be so youthful in appearance — and perhaps only fully clothed. I am not sure about that one; I don’t scare myself while bathing but that’s not really evidence. If you have seen me nude and are reading this, you may send me only positive feedback, as I am rather sensitive.

Okay, so what does this mean? Well, it means I know I am not getting any younger and I know if I want to live a long and healthy life I need to make some more changes.

I know what I have to do. I can’t keep coasting on my unlined skin and firm neck. No, it’s time.

I can’t believe I am here — about halfway to the finish line — or so I hope.

Yeah, it’s time.