Mirror, Mirror - WTF Happened to My Knees?

A love letter to the sag, the slide, and surprise wrinkles.

There are some truly vivid observations we make as aging women about our bodies or that others oh-so-helpfully make for us. It’s one of the more jarring, humbling and, let’s be honest, sometimes downright depressing parts of embracing our Real Girls Over 55 phase.

For me, it’s happened in waves.

I still remember being 20 and sitting across from my mom when she casually mentioned, “My knees are sagging.”

I blinked, tilted my head, and responded, “Huh?”

They were English words, yes. But strung together, they made zero sense to me at the time.

Sagging knees? What?!

Fast forward 20 years. There I was, in my 40s, looking down and thinking, “Oh. My. God. The knees. They’re falling.”

Even better, I recently mentioned this phenomenon over dinner to my much younger sister. She’s in her 30s.

That night, she texted me a photo of her own knees with the caption: “WTAF.”

The body horror doesn’t end there, friends. In my early 40s, I once took my then-9-year-old son with me to pick up concealer, which the associate artfully (I use that word liberally) applied under my eyes.

I felt great. Those dark circles and puffy bags? Hidden. She nailed it.

I proceeded to ask my son for his honest opinion about how he thought I looked.

“Well,” he began cautiously, “now I can see all the lines and crinkles under your eyes. You should go with the blue circles.”

Thanks, kid.

Then there are the discoveries I’ve made all on my own. Years ago, for example, I saw a Lisa Rinna commercial (I’m a big Bravo fan) for Depends.

“Oh please,” I thought to myself. “that can't be real life.”

Fast forward to the present. I’ve raised three kids, experienced several surprise bursts of menopause mania, and navigated 55 years of high-impact living.

Guess what? My bladder is starting to shout,“You might want to circle back on those pads, girl!”

Let’s be clear: I’m not blind. I see the downward migration: the eyelids, the jawline, the skin around my mouth.

Don’t even get me started on the neck.

And then there are the hands (which are starting to look suspiciously like those of my mom in her 50s … and of my grandma) and the elbows.

Yes, elbows.

I have become eerily accurate at guessing a woman’s age within three years just by counting elbow wrinkles. It’s a party trick now.

Just today, the youngest chimed in from the passenger seat while we were driving. The sun hit my face just right.

“Mom,” he said, “this is going to sound gross, but you need to shave your face. You have more hair on it than an overripe peach. Do something. Fast.”

And yet, somehow in my head, I still feel 25. I still think I look 25.

Right up until a comment like that or a mirror snaps me out of it.

But don’t mistake me for someone who’s vain or spends hours analyzing her face in magnified mirrors.

I’m the anti-prepper: Wash-and-go curly hair. Five-minute makeup, when or if I even bother.

The occasional swipe of lip gloss and toss of my hair into a ponytail count as effort.

That said, I’m not taking these changes lying down. There are subtle, low-drama ways I’m trying to feel a little more in control, including:

● Occasional facials

● Microneedling (I’m surprisingly into it)

● A little Botox and filler here and there

● Working out (mostly for sanity, but also for strength)

● And yes, I’ve recently started lifting weights (the small, friendly, cute kind)

Here’s the truth: I actually feel more comfortable in my skin than I ever have.

Some of that mindset is physical. I finally feel like I’m doing something about the southern slide.

Some of it is mental. I’m starting to admit I look pretty damn good for my age.

But most of it? It’s this new, totally unexpected confidence showing up out of nowhere. And the real shift is that I no longer feel guilty for feeling good about myself.

It took decades to get here. Decades of criticizing myself for how I looked. For what I weighed. For what I wore.

I wasn’t a great keeper of me in my younger years. I wish I could go back and tell her: “You’re kind of amazing. Please stop wasting so much time picking yourself apart. You’re going to age like a badass.”

Also, I should have reminded her to wear sunscreen because wrinkles, sunspots, and skin cancer aren’t cute.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have those moments when I walk past a mirror, do a double-take, and think, “Woof. Who is that old lady?”

Only to realize: Shit. She’s me.

But then I smile, stand up a little straighter, and take a deep breath.

Because damn, she’s still standing. Still laughing. Still showing up. Still a badass.

Wrinkled elbows, saggy knees, crinkly under-eyes, and all.

Are you 55+ and riding the wild ride of body changes? Got a story that’s funny, weird, or just so real? Send it my way at realgirlsguide55@gmail.com or add a comment - I want to hear it all.

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