She has salt and pepper hair with streaks of a creamy shade of blonde which fall exactly on her shoulders.
She’s wearing a shirt two sizes bigger than her with the neckline and sleeves neatly cut off.
She has on a pair of invisible shorts and cowboy boots with one inch heels.
Her purple bag stands out from the neutral palette she chose for her drab.
And she’s smoking a pack of Marlboro Menthols while discussing business with her young male companion who’s most likely her son.
She is a portal to the future I have imagined.
A “post-middle-aged” woman still feeling young and looking upbeat.
She looks like whom I thought I wanted to be.
She’s cool, she’s rich, and at 55-ish, she still manages to look like a rockstar.
But seeing her changed my mind…
When I’m supposed to be old and wise and experienced, I don’t wanna look like someone who walked straight out of a Miley Cyrus music video.
I don’t want to dye my hair just cos I’m not happy with the white strands growing out of my head.
And I don’t want to look like someone who can’t let go of her youth because she can’t accept the fact that growing old is inevitable.
When you see me 37 years from now, I’ll be that old lady with short grey hair, wearing a paisley printed skirt that covers my bare feet.
I’ll be reading a book by my favorite “white-suit-wearing” author, sipping coffee from a cup with my misspelled name written on it.
I’ll be wearing the bracelets made by my kids back when they we’re learning arts and crafts in kindergarten.
I’ll be looking at the blue sky momentarily, asking myself why I thought about dying early when I was younger.
I’ll have wrinkles on my face and I’ll be proud of every single line and scar I have on my skin.
I’ll be old.
I’ll be happy.
I’ll be alive.
And I swear I won’t look like that cougar standing across the table where I’m writing this right now.