A proud wrinkly

I first heard the term wrinkly before I was one.

My friend (a man whom I call the brother I always wanted) and I were about to go to a Barclay James Harvest concert at the then Noga Hilton Theatre in Geneva. He had introduced me to the group when I was first in Switzerland.

At the time he was 29 and I was 47. Not wrinklies by any means. They were playing in Lausanne and I loved them.

We were then in our 50s and 60s. They were doing a reunion concert.  His wife didn't want to go saying, there would be "too many wrinklies."

Thanks to good genes, my skin has been slow to wrinkle. Strangely my left cheek has a few more lines than my right. I've been told that I look younger than my years, but who in their right mind would tell someone they looked older than their years.

Still, the term wrinkly fits for those of us who are aging. I don't mind it although others may.

Years ago, when still in my early 40s I read an essay by a woman who claimed she never lied about her age. She asked that if she lied, which year of her life would be eliminated and went on to name important events, good and bad. Those years made her who she was that moment.

My hair is white. I wanted to stop dyeing it for years but hated having to see roots as it grew out. Chemo helped by removing all the old red number 666 (yes that was the number on the box). I've read that more and more women are preferring to go gray. It looks more natural.

Even when I am shocked at how many years I've lived, I am equally happy at how well I've lived. Not because I'm rich in money, but rich in all the things that count and especially in love both received and given.

So call me a wrinkly. I've earned every little crevice...