Oh hell no.

The first sign came a couple of years ago, when I turned over in bed and felt something between my shoulder blades.  "What the hell is underneath me?" and then there was the shock.  Nothing was between  my flesh and the rumbled sheet but my....own sagging skin. 

And then this weekend, while undressing in the questionable lighting of my B&B bathroom, I noticed a strange mark on my torso in my reflection in the mirror.  "What's that, a smudge?"  No, merely shadows from again--from my own flesh--and the teensiest bit of sag.

Oh hell no.

So despite the miles of training on foot and on the bike, and innumerable 'reps' of the weights, I'm here to tell you, the flesh does sag after 50...well at least at 51, almost 52.

And today, the life insurance salesman visited with all of us covered under the Town of Van Horn's policy.

Sigh.

I suppose this should be the place I talk about honoring the beauty of age...and I really do believe in that honor, in that beauty.  But did it have to happen to me?!?

I mean, really, what was I thinking?  That I'd somehow be forever immune from this sort of thing?

I remember a stunningly beautiful poster of a older woman swimmer, her back an origami of skin against the smooth fabric of her suit.  I can't find that image anymore, and when I google, "image old woman swimmer," I get images of Dara Torres, who has provided me with inspiration to keep fit, to keep active, to not be defined by "over 40," or even "over 50."

And so I just grin and bear it.  And I'm incredibly thankful to still be running and hiking, and cycling and lifting weights at this age.  Sometimes when I lack motivation on my runs, I use the name as a mantra, "Dar a, Tor res.  Dar a, Tor res."  It helps keep me going.

I have no doubt that I will be that wrinkly woman runner, swimmer, cyclist, hiker for a long time to come.  Still at it, still confident that the muscles will work, under all that sharpei-skin that's developing.