Jane 
Oh I am very proud of being 62.
I’ve earned every year.
I’ve survived bad haircuts, worse men, and low-rise jeans.
Age brings perspective, freedom, and a truly glorious ability to not reply immediately.
But here’s my honest confession.
You can love your age and still hate bits of ageing.
For me, it’s my neck.
My scrawny, traitorous, gives-away-the-whole-operation neck.
Nora Ephron said it best in I Feel Bad About My Neck.
She loved her life.
She loved being a woman of a certain age.
But the neck? Absolutely not.
I feel spiritually aligned with her on this matter.
“The neck is a dead giveaway. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t have to do that if it had a neck.” Nora Ephron
My face still plays along most days.
A bit tired, yes.
But my neck has gone completely off-script.
It has no chill.
It flaps in a breeze that may or may not exist.
And here’s my unpopular opinion.
We are allowed to complain about this stuff.
Gratitude and irritation can co-exist.
Being “grateful to be alive” does not require pretending gravity isn’t a menace.
I don’t want anti-ageing nonsense.
I don’t want to be told to “embrace every line”.
Some lines are fine.
Some wobble where no wobble was invited.
Let me moisturise aggressively and mutter under my breath.
Ageing is a privilege.
It’s also weird.
And occasionally hilarious.
If Nora could roast her neck while loving her life, so can I.
So yes, I’m 62 and proud.
And yes, I sometimes pull my jumper up just a bit higher.
Both things can be true.
That’s not vanity.
That’s wisdom.
