On Ageing

When I die, I want my face to tell the story of my life. I want laugh lines and age spots. I want white hair, whiskers and wisdom. I want to leave with a smile on my face and a song on my lips. I want my ashes scattered to the wind, where my beloved birds soar...

I never had a desire to look thirty-something in my mid-fifties—hell, I deeply, deeply regret the boob job I got at twenty-two—no, I'd rather be a Golden Girl as I crest old lady hill on the way to my golden years! I embrace the stretch marks and saggy skin.

Ageing is a gift. I'm grateful for every moment I get to spend on this glorious planet. I chuckled to myself today, sitting on the patio enjoying the 30 mph wind gusts, talking to my dog and whiling the day away. I was thinking of my grandmother and how she enjoyed sitting outside, and I was amused that in so many ways, I'm just like her—then the Universe sent me a butterfly, it was beautiful.