43 on 4/3. Does that mean anything?

I think it means "Grow up and get real!"

I went to wake Katy up this morning and as I hugged her, her first words were: "Happy Birthday, Mama . . . 43." I'm always impressed by the way she is so on top of things. But this time, I could have done without her wise-ass grin.

I once wrote an essay called "37." Apparently that was some sort of milestone for me. Now I'm reminded that I'm still old enough to be a grandmother. Sure glad I'm not.

I'll never forget a conversation I had with some of the squadron wives when we were at Cannon Air Force Base about 10 years ago. Most of those women were about five to seven years younger than I was. One of them was lamenting her upcoming 29th birthday. In all of my sage wisdom, I replied, "Try 34."

I'm understanding now those middle-age crazies I heard about when I was a kid. I wouldn't necessarily refer to this "midlife" feeling as a "crisis," but it is this sort of second adolescence. Again, I feel uncomfortable in my body. Not so much awkward as unwieldy. When I was awkward, I knew I would eventually catch up with myself and get it. Now (in this unwieldy body that is out-of-sync with my brain), when I try to turn flips on a trampoline or roller skate too fast, for example, my body tells me that I've lost it (and not just mentally). My chiropractor says, "Jill, just because you can do it, doesn't mean you should."

Why am I so afraid of aging? A friend (who shall remain nameless lest he get more publicity than he deserves) posted this on my Facebook wall: "I sure hope you enjoy your birthday. You don't have that many left." Pretty funny, unless I end up dead soon. Then who will they suspect, huh?

First, I'll count my blessings about this aging shell my soul is stuck with. I don't have much of a gray hair problem seeing as how I just try to stay bleached blonde. Sure, those wiry grays tend to stand up and make themselves known, but I just weigh them down with some product or other, or pluck them if they don't behave. I don't really have any crows' feet around my eyes yet. At least not that I can see. I don't have saggy boobs, but only because they are too small to sag. So that gives the illusion that they are still somewhat perky. I'm not overweight, and cellulite has yet to replace every square inch of my thighs. So I still have all those things to look forward to.

Now, I may look healthy and in shape, but I can't even fold a basket of laundry without getting winded. My heart rate only rises to a calorie-burning level when I look at my bank account to see how much I pay for my unused gym membership every month. When I do go to the gym, I'm always afraid the buff youngsters parading themselves at the front desk can tell when my last visit was when they scan my membership tag. Then they scoff at me after seeing how old I am and think, "Oh, give it up lady," when really they probably don't give me another thought. Other than maybe, "Hmm, my mom was born in 1966, too."

And just yesterday afternoon as I sat in the sunlight (bad idea), I started noticing—for the first time—spider veins in my ankles and thinning skin on my already bony hands. I swear that these conditions arose right before my trifocal-wearing eyes. But the most troubling thing for me is my neck. If any of you got a copy of our family Christmas picture and still have it, look at my neck. I wish I had had the photographer airbrush some of that tree-trunk look out of it. Age often shows in the neck—especially on women who have had their faces all pinned up and stretched out and Restylaned and Botoxed. I haven't gone to that extreme, and I won't because I think looking naturally old is more attractive than looking freakishly pathetic. Who do they think they're fooling? And why? But my neck has really aged out of proportion to the rest of me. And it's long, so that just doubles the attention it gets. I guess I'll start wearing some smart-looking Talbot's turtlenecks and sassy scarves from Chico's. Remember ladies, sunscreen that neck. I must have neglected mine for years.

Anyway, all this to say: Vanity sucks. Sucks your spirit dry. Michael J. Fox recently said that vanity is the first thing to go. The first thing you gladly and even unknowingly toss out the window when you find yourself in a life or death situation. English writer Anthony Powell (whom I have never heard of before) said, "Self-love seems so often unrequited." How true. And French philosopher Henri Bergson (whom I had also never heard of) said, "The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that's laughable is vanity." I say: Vanity pretends to run deep but it's shallow. It can fill us up, but it's hollow.

I'm just glad to know that when the last drop of my incredible hotness is all gone, I'll still be able to rely on my vastly superior intelligence and unparalleled sense of humor to keep me in the spotlight. What a relief.