When I was in my early twenties, I spent the majority of my nights club hopping and dancing to Madonna until 4:00 a.m. I drank an obscene amount of rum concoctions and still made it to work each morning without a hangover. I felt unstoppable, and from my young perspective, “middle-aged” was a dirty word synonymous with orthotic sandals, naps, and flower print muumuus that looked like they were sewn from a shower curtain. I pitied the women at the grocery store who were my mother’s age—– their carts stocked with probiotic yogurts and pain relievers, a fatigued look in their eyes as they perused the vitamin supplement aisle. I couldn’t imagine how dull their lives must be and swore I’d to never become like them.

The changes were subtle at first… squinting at a menu, plucking a lone grey hair from my head, and discovering a little less wiggle room in my favourite pair of jeans. The mirror was not kind.

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