I'm not 25 anymore. Or 35. Or even 45. I'll stop there. I'm trying to be accepting about this getting older thing. But it's hard. A lot harder in reality than it sounded in the abstract even 10 or 15 years ago.

I've taken a few steps to soften the blow. I keep my hair a lovely shade of ash brown with highlights. I exercise so as not to take on a matronly shape. I keep up with popular culture as much as possible from music and movies to slang and fashion (I don't implement them, I just keep them on my radar). And I married a man six years younger than myself. Of course, I was in my 30s at the time, so I'm not sure that counts as a preventive measure.

Despite all my best efforts to stop the clock, or at least slow it down, as the well-worn cliche goes, "time keeps marching on, and it's marching all over my face." Every year is clearly mapped out there, showing where I've been, what I've done, mistakes I've made. See that line there? That's from my divorce. The one over there? Two miscarriages. That deep one? That's when my mother died. The network of fine lines drawn across my forehead? That's from those horrible years when my son's Tourette's Syndrome was at its worst. That lovely one between my eyebrows? That's when his appendix burst. It was a close call I still find  gutwrenching to remember. Each line, each deep groove marks an important event in my life.

Still, I dislike being reminded of their presence. Yet, those reminders are becoming more frequent. The other day I went to the movie with a friend. (We went to see Splice; it was deliciously depraved.) She decided a while ago to let her hair go completely grey and she's been happy with her decision. She's a couple of years older than I am and, if I can trust what she says, she's much more accepting of this aging thing than I am. She finds it liberating. I find it limiting.

She's not old enough for a senior discount, but she decided to let her grey hair speak for itself and walked up to the ticket window and asked for a senior ticket. The perky young girl at the window, who probably wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between 45 and 65, obliged, no questions asked. I walked up next and asked for a ticket. Just a regular ticket. I'm not ready to proclaim myself senior discount eligible and I tend to follow rules like that anyway (fear of getting caught). I paid with a credit card, so I didn't notice the price. As we walked in the theater, I glanced at the ticket and there in capital letters "SENIOR DISCOUNT."  Someone punched me in the gut, knocking the last bit of air from my lungs. This was it. The beginning of the end. Social Security, Medicare, Bingo and dinner at 4:30 at Luby's Cafeteria is just around the corner.

My friend has been trying to talk me down off the ledge, metaphorically speaking, of course. It helps that she's a psychologist. Maybe some of her "who gives a shit" attitude will rub off on me.

One thing's for sure, no matter what I do or don't do; what I choose to accept or not to accept, the clock will keep on ticking. My birthday is next month and I will be yet another year older and will probably develop a few more lines to mark my worries about getting older.

Despite my advancing chronological age, I don't forsee any immediate changes in my tastes or behavior. I will continue to listen to music by the Neon Trees, watch the MTV Movie Awards, write my vampire romance novel and the next time I go to the movie, if they offer me a senior discount, I'll demand to pay full price. I'll be more than happy to provide proof that I'm not there yet.