So today, I ran into a guy I haven’t seen in about ten years. He’s about a decade younger than me, and somehow, he looks exactly the same. Not just “still recognizable,” but like he stepped out of a cryogenic chamber where he’s been gently aging in a climate-controlled mist of manly preservation.

Meanwhile, I’ve gone from a hot bottled blonde to… well… a hot grandma. Let me clarify: I’m still hot, but now it’s with orthopedic inserts, reading glasses, and an uncanny ability to identify 2000s music from the first three notes.

Back in the day, I had highlights that cost more than a car payment and legs that turned heads. These days, the only heads I turn are other women in CVS asking, “What aisle did you find that compression sleeve on?”

He, on the other hand, looked fresh-faced, like he just jogged out of a Gillette commercial and into my existential crisis. Not a wrinkle. Not a gray hair. Just gliding through life on testosterone and good lighting. I stared at him for a beat too long trying to figure out if he’d made a deal with the devil or just moisturized more consistently than I did in my thirties.

To be fair, aging isn’t all bad. I’ve got wisdom, confidence, and the glorious freedom of not caring what people think when I wear Crocs to the grocery store. I’ve also upgraded from vodka in red Solo cups to wine that comes with a cork—and no longer cry during hair appointments (well, most of the time).

But still… seeing someone frozen in time while you’ve been through childbirth, career changes, life, death, gravity, and three different versions of the Food Pyramid? It hits differently.

So yes, I may be more “Golden Girl” than “Baywatch” now. But I am still golden. A hot grandma with stories, stamina, and sass. He may have kept his jawline, but I’ve kept my sense of humor—and I don’t need Botox for that.

Aging gracefully? Please. I’m aging boldly, baby. And if that man wants to know what real glow-up looks like, he can follow me to the parking lot, where I’ll be showing off my new hip mobility moves getting into my Subaru.

Because you don’t need to look the same to still be fabulous. You just need to own it. Wrinkles, roots, and all.