Ask me my age

I'm turning 47 soon, and I've been thinking about this whole aging thing.

I know it's not polite to ask someone their age, and if you're a woman of a "certain age" you're certainly not supposed to admit to it.

Youth and beauty are the be-all and end-all and if you're over 40, then you need to knock at least five years off that, because who wants to admit to being over *whispers* 40?

Me. I do. I'M NEARLY 47. I let my hair go grey a few years ago, and I actually like it that way. I dyed it for years, of course I did, because grey hair is a Curse and a Burden that HORRIBLY AGES YOU.

Except ... well ... no. I've always had an indifferent relationship with my hair. It grows, I cut it. I used to dye it, and it would just do its thing. Now it's grey, and I need a haircut, but I'm not unhappy about it. I think it looks okay. I think .. I look okay. Especially for someone who's meant to be

A) Invisible
B) "Just" a wife and mother
C) An embittered spinster.

I am a wife and mother, but I'm also a reader, would-be writer, gamer, fulltime worker, cat lady, cross-stitcher, film fan ... you get the idea.

Who I am is not entirely tied up with who I married, or who I carried (for nine months and nine days); but it's made up of every single day of my nearly-47 years and all of the passions and pitfalls that come with being human.

Go ahead. Ask me my age. I'll tell you.