It’s an old mirror: A field report on aging

Aging is simply what happens when you stay around long enough to collect stories

By Mona Andrei

March 23, 2026

It’s funny how we all have our own definition of what being “old” means.

Mine used to be other people.

Not even kidding. Getting old was just not something that was ever going to happen to me. Not because I was going to die young, but because I was convinced I would somehow stay young forever. When the numbers went up, I simply knew — to the core of my very naïve soul — that I would always look and feel young.

Truth bomb: I was wrong.

I know this because I’m 61 now and even my old mirror barely recognizes me. My once taut, smooth skin now looks like a forgotten peach in a fruit bowl, three weeks past its peak.

Oddly enough, I remember exactly when my youthful definition of “old” first revealed itself.

I was 19 and walking with a friend in Ville Lasalle when, as I looked down at our elongated shadows leading the way, it suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t know how old she was. So, I asked her. (When you’re 19, it doesn’t occur to you that this might be considered a “personal question.”)

“I’m 22,” she answered with an edge of nonchalance in her voice.

My breath got stuck in my chest, and I had to look away because I didn’t want her to see the expression on my face.

The words SHE’S SOOOO OLD were an automatic response in my brain, and while I can’t say for sure, I’m pretty sure my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline.

Why?

Because I was hanging out with a 22-year-old.

In my mind, she was practically my mother’s age.

Getting old was just not something that was ever going to happen to me. Not because I was going to die young, but because I was convinced I would somehow stay young forever.

It’s funny how time does that. At 19, someone in their early twenties seems impossibly grown up. Mature. Established. Possibly even wise. Yet, looking back at myself when I was 22, I wasn’t any of those things. In hindsight, I still needed supervision.

Perspective changes everything.

In comparison, this morning when I looked in the mirror, that same feeling of surprise was reflected back at me.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

Meanwhile, the old lady in the mirror looked just as confused.

What happened? she seemed to ask. Did you do something funny to your face? Didn’t I just see you last night?

Wait.

Last night WAS last night, right?

Because right now it looks like forty years happened overnight.

Then this afternoon, I was loading up the dishwasher and happened to glance down at my hands.

If it weren’t for my eye sockets holding my eyeballs in place, they would have fallen straight into the dishwasher.

Again, I was like: WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?

My once smooth skin now looks like a roadmap that’s been folded a few too many times.

And now I’m wondering if I should have admitted that out loud. Not because my skin resembles papier mâché, but because I’ve probably just aged myself even more.

I’m imagining you, dear reader, crinkling your forehead and asking, Wait… how exactly does one fold a map?

For clarity, I’m not talking about Google Maps. I’m talking about the good old-fashioned paper kind… the ones that never folded back the way they were supposed to. You would carefully follow the creases and somehow still end up with a giant crumpled mess that refused to cooperate.

Well, that’s the back of my hands now.

You start out thinking everything will unfold neatly. There will be a clear route, a sensible destination, and you’ll arrive looking fresh and smooth.

And life, I’m discovering, is a little bit like that map.

You start out thinking everything will unfold neatly. There will be a clear route, a sensible destination, and you’ll arrive looking fresh and smooth.

Then the years pass.

You live.

You make choices. Good ones, questionable ones, and a few that make you wince.

You raise children. You love people. You lose people. You try things that work and things that don’t. You celebrate small victories and survive the occasional awkward mistake. For some of us *cough* occasional actually means frequent.

And somewhere along the way, the map gets folded so many times that the lines begin to show.

Which brings me to the part of aging that nobody really prepares you for.

It’s not just the wrinkles or the grey hair or the surprising appearance of skin tags.

It’s the quiet moments of reflection.

Moments where you pause and wonder:

Did I do enough when I had the energy and vitality?

Do my children know how much I love them?

Have I shown my parents the appreciation they deserve?

Have I lived the life I was meant to live?

These questions tend to sneak up on you when you’re doing something ordinary, like going through your closet to get rid of the clothes you haven’t worn in decades.

Suddenly, you find yourself contemplating the big picture.

What does it all mean?

What happens when we reach the end of the road?

‘I have to accept the fact that I’m closer to the end of the road than I’ve ever been before. But oddly enough, that realization doesn’t feel as scary as I thought it would. If anything, it makes life feel more precious.’

Will there be some kind of performance review?

Will I arrive somewhere and hear a voice say, “Well done. You did the best you could with what you had.”

Or will the powers that be look at me and say, “Hmm. Interesting choices, Mona. Let’s talk about a few of them and see where you could have done better.”

Personally, I like to imagine that if there is a higher power waiting for us, She hopefully has a sense of humour.

She has to.

After all, She created human beings.

Which means She has been watching us walk into rooms and forget why we’re there… misplace our glasses while they’re sitting on our heads… and argue passionately about things that will seem hilariously unimportant in a hundred years, or possibly ten minutes later.

So perhaps when my time comes, the conversation will go something like this:

“Well,” She’ll say with a gentle smile, “that was quite a ride.”

And I’ll shrug and reply, “Meh. I could have done better.”

Because really, isn’t that what we all think: that we could always do better?

In the meantime, I have to accept the fact that I’m closer to the end of the road than I’ve ever been before.

But oddly enough, that realization doesn’t feel as scary as I thought it would.

If anything, it makes life feel more precious.

More immediate.

More worth paying attention to.

I do hope I still have a few more decades here on earth. Healthy ones. Ones filled with laughter, family dinners, long conversations, and maybe a few more moments where I look in the mirror and think, Well… that escalated quickly.

‘Personally, I like to imagine that if there is a higher power waiting for us, She hopefully has a sense of humour. She has to. After all, She created human beings.’

And sometimes I think about that 19-year-old girl walking down a street in Ville Lasalle, silently panicking because she had just discovered she was friends with someone who was 22 years old.

If I could speak to her now, I’d tell her to relax. Aging isn’t the terrible thing she imagined.

It’s simply what happens when you stay around long enough to collect stories.

And if the day eventually comes when I reach those pearly gates, and someone asks how things went down there, I’ll probably shrug and say, “Well… it was a bit messy. But it was interesting.”

And then I’ll ask for the WIFI password because I have a feeling I’ll want to write about it.

Feature image: Milada Vigerova – Pexels

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Mona Andrei is a Montreal-based writer and author of Superwoman: A Funny and Reflective Look at Single Motherhood. An award-winning humour blogger, she writes about resilience, leadership, and the unseen work that shapes strong women.