I’m not 60. I’m 40. Again.

I woke up this morning and decided I’m not 60.

I don’t want to be 60. I don’t feel 60. I don’t look 60. I’m not fat. I don’t have flabby arms. I don’t wear patterned shirts from Belk.

I’m 40.

I hang out with young people. I work every day. I put up tents. I take down tents. I haul tables, unload boxes and lift 30-quart batches of sugar scrub like I’m training for the Olympics. I wear yoga pants and sneakers to work. I run around all day.

Does that sound like a 60-year-old woman to you?

What’s up, brother? I’m out here working.

I bartend part time with a young crew at a catering company, so I have to stay current. I’m not about to be the old lady standing there confused while everybody else is saying “that’s fire” and “you’re tripping.”

I’m locked in, twin.

I know what “sus” means. I know “unhinged” means somebody has completely lost the plot. I know “triflin’” means you’re doing something out of pocket in a bad way.

And right now? I’m crashing out.

Because my friends are turning 61. Some are turning 62. These are women I went to high school and college with. Women I remember drinking cheap wine with, dancing until 3 a.m. and making questionable decisions about men.

Now they have a six in front of their age.

I find this deeply disturbing.

I think I’m having a midlife crisis. Which, if you do the math, means I’m planning to live to 120.

Fine. I’ll take it.

And yes, I still flirt. Not with anyone in particular. I just believe a little harmless flirting is good for the soul. I’m married, not invisible.
What I refuse to do is wake up one morning wearing capri pants, a patterned shirt and those hideous orthopedic-looking sandals that appear to have been borrowed from Melissa Etheridge.

Not happening.

And I’m not saying anything is wrong with living in a 55-and-older community. Some of those places have better amenities and a stronger social calendar than I do.

I’m just not ready to move into one.

I’m not ready to spend my mornings playing pickleball, joining the mahjong club or attending meetings about the community garden. I still have tents to put up, sugar scrub to make and a business to grow.

Now, I will admit there are certain physical indications that I might not actually be 40.

For example, if I drop something on the floor, I have to seriously consider whether I need it badly enough to bend down and retrieve it.

And if I actually get down on the floor, getting back up requires furniture, strategic planning and possibly a crane.

At those moments, I’m not 60.

I’m 92.

My knees are tripping.

But when did 60 become old? And who decided what 60 is supposed to look like, dress like or act like?

Because nobody consulted me.

I still have businesses to build, places to go and a closet full of yoga pants.

So I’ve made an executive decision.

I’m 40. Again.

And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with my knees.

They’re the only ones telling the truth.

No cap.

Wendy Kushel is the owner of Wendala’s LowCountry Sugar Scrub, LLC based in Bluffton. Drawn to the beauty and personal care industry, Wendy founded her company in 2020. Her background includes stand-up comedy, film, TV and a lot of sales and marketing. For more information about Wendala’s® LowCountry Sugar Scrub visit www.lowcountrysugarscrub.com or call/text 843-949-8933.