“It’s paradoxical that the idea of living a long life appeals to everyone, but the idea of getting older doesn’t appeal to anyone.” (Andy Rooney)

When I was 12-years old, I would race home from the park around the block from my house on a Friday evening, obeying the sound of the 8 p.m. fire station whistle, and giving a quick wave to my friends who still lingered, all to get home in time for my date with the television.  “The Partridge Family” was dominating the ABC time slot, and it was the perfect reward for a homework filled week. 

They were days of pre-DVRs and limited channels, and watching your favorite show, at any time and as many times, was still a technological embryo.  Back in the 70’s, if you missed a new episode of a show that aired on a certain date, it came with consequences.   It would be months before the network’s rerun season began, and I wasn’t about to take the risk.  My pre-teen heart had an all-consuming, mad crush on David Cassidy.

With his slender build, shaggy hair, and impossibly handsome face, I thought he was the most beautiful guy in the world. The cool clothes, hip bell bottoms and occasional puka shells he donned only added to his appeal.  And he could sing.  I imagine for every love-sick young girl listening to the sound of his voice, “I Think I Love You,” with his complete conviction, convinced them that somehow it was directed at them. 

A teen idol becomes permanently frozen in our memory as the version of themselves who first captured our hearts. I remember decades later watching David Cassidy on Larry King Live, a few years before his untimely passing, and listening to him speak of the trials and tribulations he endured throughout most of his life, most notably his relentless battle with alcoholism. 

As with most people who age naturally, his youthful looks were a fragment of the past, washed over with the weathering the years attach to our face with time.   His story was honest and brave; his vulnerability spoke with the strength required to make an impact.  He earned the respect my resurrected memory offered as I recalled the version of this beautiful man who was once the object of many a teen heart’s desire. 

Isn’t it the way for most of us?  We awaken each morning, before our eyes adjust to the new day, feeling as though we’re still the glossier, more vibrant versions of ourselves, even if it shares space with a few more aches and pains.  It’s not until we first look in the mirror and see a stranger in the reflection who we think we recognize, or worse wonder, is that my mother staring back at me? 

If we can get past the initial bewilderment, we can realize that aging need not be as painful as a root canal if it’s accepted and embraced.  Think back to a time when you ran into an old friend you hadn’t seen in decades.  Chances are you both stared silently at first, trying to take in the aged version standing before you, and giving your eyes the appropriate time to adjust to the difference. A glint from behind their eyes then reassured you that this is the same person you shared conversation and laughs with, only time has remodeled the building.

Every gray hair and fine line is God’s permission slip to live another day. Not everyone receives one, and that makes aging less an insult than a privilege; proof that you’ve gained entrance to the club.  It’s a gift that is not bestowed to everyone, and with the proper mindset, and some luck in life, comes with a bow. 

In my opinion, Ali McGraw, the American actress and activist, is a woman who has mastered aging gracefully and beautifully.  At 84 years old, her mature face is highlighted perfectly with the gentle sweep of cosmetics, her resplendent silver hair gorgeously maintained.  More importantly, she owns a face that seems to convey peace and wisdom that cannot be replicated with a scalpel.  

When we finally accept that every passing year is a gold star on life’s exam, wrinkles become less a sentence than a badge of honor. And for those of us who prefer to wear our badges a little more discreetly, a small tweak here and there can remain our little secret.