I’m sixty-eight years old, and until that afternoon, I thought I had already heard every cruel joke anyone could make about getting older.
I was wrong.
That Saturday, I decided to go swimming at a private neighborhood pool. The weather was unbearably hot, and for the first time in years, I put on a bikini.
I almost changed my mind.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my wrinkles, my stomach, and the body that had carried children, survived surgeries, and lived nearly seven decades.
Then I told myself something simple:
I was going swimming, not entering a beauty contest.
So I grabbed my towel and left.
When I arrived, I noticed an older gentleman standing near the entrance. I had never seen him before.
He smiled politely.
“First time here?”
I nodded.
“Mine too,” he said.
We laughed, and because neither of us knew anyone, we walked toward the pool together.
