47.5 and counting...

I don't know how it happened. Okay, not true. I know how it happened. Aging: every year, a year older. So, here I am at 47.5 years old, wondering who hit the Fast-Forward button on the cassette of my life.

Yes, I'm a little perplexed by the number. In my heart -- you know, if I avoid mirrors -- I feel the same as I always have. I could be 25 or 20 or 15.

But the reality is that 47.5 is showing in my body and mind.

I have age spots that require daily camouflage with spendy concealer and foundation. The wrinkles around my eyes have me scrambling for anti-aging products.

Gravity is pulling my cheeks in a way that if I don't intentionally smile, just a little bit, I sport an air of disapproval.

I have exercise-resistant belly fat and an absentmindedness that makes me wonder if I have signs of early Alzheimer's.

Maybe the worst? I have hair growing places on my body that should be genetically impossible for a woman. We have periods for 20+ years and push babies out of our vaginas. You'd think by my age our "dues" would be paid-in-full.

But that's life's little insider joke, isn't it? When we're young, we don't believe we will age. We just don't. We think that this is something that happens to other people, that the aging gene skipped a generation. And then, 47.5 happens. The truth reveals itself.

So? So... I inhale, deeply, slowly. I exhale, slowly, and all the way. Then, I search my heart and draw from what I've learned along the way: to accept what is and feel genuine gratitude for the journey.