I have officially crossed the threshold into the realm of maturity.

The grand occasion arrived in July, marking the entrance into my fifth decade of life. It came and went without great fanfare. But if you’ve been following me, you also know I had set a lofty goal over a year ago. And some of you have been asking about it.

Inspired by the iconic image of Jennifer Lopez confidently donning a bikini well past the age of 50, I embarked on a total body transformation that would leave me “fabulous at 50.” And it would culminate in a bikini photoshoot. Did it happen? Yes and no.

I started my journey in June 2022 weighing in at 150.5 pounds. Rather than fixate on a specific target weight, I considered my BMI and aimed for anything in the healthy range. I knew that for my height I was just in the overweight category, but I needed to think of this transformation as something more than just a number. It wasn’t enough to look magnificent in swimwear if I still couldn’t go on a long hike with my kids. So, exercise became an indispensable companion on this journey. My daily walks gradually evolved to a deliberate regimen of three to five miles, five times per week. I didn’t go on a “diet,” but generally eliminated sweets and junk food almost entirely until reaching what seemed to be my plateau weight of 120.5 pounds.

That’s the short of it. The longer version is that if you have been reading along with me over this year, you know it was never just about squeezing into a bikini. I’ve taken some time to reflect on the aging process and I’ve concluded that when it comes to getting older, it sucks to be a woman. I want you to know that I’ve chosen my words here deliberately to underscore the challenges that women often confront as they age. Women are often pressured to hide their years. If they’re not pressured to but just choose to, they’re still shamed for doing so. And if they embrace the aging process unabashedly exhibiting the signs of wisdom etched upon their faces and bodies, they frequently encounter gendered ageism, which often exacts a toll on their professional lives.

For now, I’ve elected to mask the years that have gracefully accumulated on my body. In part because I’m resisting the categorization of “old woman,” but also because I don’t feel like an “old woman.” But it’s easy for me to do this. The few gray strands of hair have been masterfully camouflaged, and I attribute the absence of any pronounced wrinkles to my lifelong avoidance of excessive sun exposure. Nevertheless, I reserve the prerogative to investigate the mystical realm of “Botox,” something that could also help with the chronic migraines I have from raging hormones. Another gift from aging womanhood and menopause initiated by my hysterectomy last year.

While we’re on the topic of hormones, every woman should be given a medal for her fortitude for enduring the trials of perimenopause and menopause. And every woman should be given a referral to a pelvic floor therapist. (Actually, men with prostate issues too.) Likewise, every woman over the age of 50 should be given a prescription for vaginal estrogen. No, I’m not a doctor, so, please consult with yours. But if your doctor hasn’t heard of pelvic floor therapy or vaginal estrogen and its benefits — ladies, trust me, you need this! — find a doctor who has.

So, I lost a bunch of weight, bid adieu to my uterine counterpart, and opted to maintain the veneer of youthfulness. I bought the bikini, and even a pair of svelte, skinny jeans have found their way into my wardrobe. Yet the much-anticipated photoshoot remains an elusive aspiration. But hear me out. Just as I was getting up the courage to do it, I mean, just as I was poised to embark on this endeavor, I was applying for jobs. While I harbor no iota of shame or hesitation in unveiling my achievements, the prospect of subjecting myself to the ritual of waxing and spray tanning, only to have a prospective employer peruse the resultant narrative seemed a daunting proposition. I hit the pause button.

And since I’ve landed a job that I love — rest assured, I’ll still be writing — the siren call of my impending “centerfold” moment remains on hold. An ephemeral pursuit deferred for a more propitious juncture. A few of my colleagues read my column (thank you!) and I’ve decided the photoshoot is something better put off.

If anything, this postponement affords me additional time to refine the contours of my abdominal prowess, which, while slimmer, has yet to reach the “abs-of-steel” level.

JLo’s resplendent derriere may be a pipe dream, yet the journey continues.

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