"I don't want to get old."

That was ten-year-old me, confessing a secret fear to my father as he sat reading the newspaper one evening. I'm not sure what prompted this shortsighted declaration, but I must have hinted that the idea of radical physical changes made me twitchy.

True to form, Dad came up with an above-average response to the concern I'd dumped in his lap. "Well," he said. "It's going to happen gradually and subtly, you know. You won't just wake up one morning and see an elderly person in the mirror."

Looking at the reflection of decades-older me, I realize Dad was right: This aging thing has snuck up on me and I'm not too terribly shocked by the mug I see in the looking glass. At least not until I haul out old photos and start to compare. But I try not to submit myself to that ego-shattering exercise very often.

Lifestyle, attitude, genetics. These all contribute to the non-traumatic aging process. Clothing styles too, I'm convinced. I recently came across a photograph of my maternal grandmother taken at approximately the age I am now, and it's like crossing into a separate reality. Thinking back, I can't remember Grammy Mink ever aspiring to anything more stylish than those wire-frame granny glasses, floral housedresses, stodgy shoes, and tightly-coiled tresses.

Like other ladies of her generation for whom slacks were only appropriate as gardening attire, she took on the grandma look in her forties. Just settled into the comfort of it, and rode out the next forty-plus years giving nary a thought to fashion's fickle trends. I, on the other hand, have been known to make the occasional purchase from the Juniors Department.

Still, as I lounge about in my Levis having declared that I pretty much accept my current self, I must admit there are certain aging signs I never even vaguely anticipated.

Like earlobes that lose elasticity. (Being a side-sleeper, I actually have to flick these babies back into place every morning. Ugh.)

Or disappearing brows. And eyes that, having lost the natural pigmentation that once defined them, seem to retreat deeper into their sockets.

Never dreamed that my nose would elongate, smugly pointing to the Frankenstein lines lightly etched above my upper lip. (A bit of advice: Throw away your magnifying mirror on your 40th birthday. Better yet, do this the day before your 40th birthday.)

And what's with these fluffy little cushions of flesh that have established residence along my jaw line and only disappear fleetingly after I've bent over and wrapped my freshly shampooed hair in a towel?

(Perhaps you've noticed I haven't even ventured south of my chin yet? Not to worry; I'll spare you the rest of the tour.)

Ah well. Just incredibly thankful to be here—blessed with sound health and loyal friends with whom to share this "getting older" experience.

And it doesn't hurt having those faithful blue jeans hanging in the closet to slip into whenever I need an infusion of youthful spunk.