Update: My friend Mary and I are collaborating on the #lovemylaughlines project to encourage people to feel comfortable in their own skin. We’d love to see your laugh lines too — tag a selfie or self-portrait on Instagram with the hashtag to share your beautiful proof with us!
I’m a big believer in doing things that help you feel good. I take group exercise classes regularly and, as of this past Monday, I’m a certified Primary Pilates instructor. I try to eat and drink in moderation, though I’m honest enough to admit I don’t always succeed. I get plenty of fresh air, and while I’m careful in many ways, I still do the occasional silly thing — like hurtling down a sledding hill on a decades-old flying saucer. It’s been ridden hard for over thirty years. Oof.
I enjoy nice clothes and makeup and also the comfort of jeans, mismatched socks, and a “Weird Al is my Homeboy” t-shirt. Some days I’m fully made-up; other days I’m happily casual. I love pretty things, and I also love my growing collection of wrinkles.
I truly mean that. I’m grateful for the gift of continued life, health, and the lines that come with it. I have laugh lines around my mouth — laugh lines. That means I’ve spent a lot of time smiling and laughing, and those moments have left a permanent trace on my face. That’s not something to hide; it’s something to celebrate.
I have smile lines around my eyes, too. Whether from happy thoughts, mischievous thoughts, or squinting into bright winter sun, those creases record the moments my eyes scrunched with emotion. Again: these lines are proof that I’ve been smiling my way through life.
This photo of my mom, aunts, and grandma, taken by Anna Grimm of Moments Captured, offers the best empirical evidence I can provide. These women have shown me that laugh lines and smile lines are beautiful. They’re visible signs of a life well lived.
What about the furrows in my brow — the marks left by concentration, deep thought, and worry? Some of those come from real scares: a son who disappeared long enough to frighten me, a broken arm, worries about asthma. Grief from the losses of my stepmom, grandpa, uncle, aunt, niece, and nephew left their traces too. I wouldn’t erase those lines for anything, because they map the experiences that shaped me. Without them, there’d be no record of the people I loved deeply and the challenges I faced.
Do I look like I did at twenty? Far from it. Five pregnancies change your body — honestly, even one pregnancy does. Life alters you. But I wouldn’t trade my softer, stronger self to be the waifish eighteen- or twenty-year-old again. I’m physically strong, comfortable in my skin, and I’m proud to wear what I once might have called my inner dork on the outside.
The veins showing more clearly on the backs of my hands tell another story: a map of the work I’ve done. Diapers changed, noses wiped, articles written, photos taken, dishes washed, hands held, floors scrubbed, wood stacked, books read, and doors opened — sometimes with elbows, as my self-preservation streak dictates. They’re evidence of a life that’s been lived fully.
Still, I would never dream of erasing those marks with Botox, chemical peels, fillers, lip procedures, or lifts. Every little wrinkle and imperfection is a metaphor for the passage of time and the shedding of earlier uncertainties. They’re badges of honor and outward signs of how much more comfortable I am in my identity now than I once was. That’s why I say I’m aging like a boss.
This life is a one-shot deal. I’m jumping into it with lycra-clad enthusiasm for exercise classes and savoring the ride — wrinkles and all.