Mirrors, like monsters, come in all shapes and sizes. They sneak up on you when you least expect it and take a big bite out of your life. Monsters hide in the dark. No such luck with mirrors. You can't avoid the damn things. Nor can you avoid getting old.

Time to slay the dragon, I tell myself. I'm old enough. Fight back. Better to be predator than prey.

Growing old should come as no surprise; I have been at it for years. I should be able to turn to the mirror and greet my reflection as I would a sister. She and I go back a long way, and yet each time the two of us meet, I am taken by surprise. She is old and I am young!

Supposedly you are as young as you feel. Your body is like a pair of pants with an elastic waistband — self-adjusting. So, the older you get, the more comfortable you should feel inside your skin. To my mind that's stretching the truth.

Gaining weight, losing momentum, making New Year's Resolutions in the middle of the year, wondering who I might have been had Lady Luck favoured me and dutifully pouting, sinning, forgiving, making do, baking, returning phone calls, embracing my dear old husband and adult children, looking in on the marvellous baby blue sky and savouring a second cup of coffee in the backyard, are all part and parcel of my daily life now. Having no nine-to-five job to rush to, I can retire to the den and watch TV or daydream. I've done it all — once, twice, a hundred times. And yet I can't believe I am turning the big 50. Remembering the look on my aunt's face as she lay dying, I wonder how I can possibly court joy, chase after "Isdom" (I don't dare call it "Wisdom") and expect to succeed?

"The problem is, and get this straight, I liked being young," I tell my husband, a licensed therapist. "I liked my slim figure and golden brown hair. Back then I was optimistic and sure of myself. Grey hair, wrinkles, and self-doubts — they're all part of an elaborate hoax to cover up who I am. Really am!"

"The important thing," he says, "is to be able to joke about your age. If you can do that, count yourself lucky. Knowing how to tell a joke is more valuable than knowing how to add and subtract. (Much good math skills do when you are down in the dumps.) Jokes, tall tales, embellished truths and little white lies ('I love your tie!') go a long way in making life, and more importantly, dying bearable."

"Don't tell me I'll get used to getting old, because I won't. Don't tell me to look for the silver lining, because I have looked and have not found it. I have put on rose-coloured glasses and the world did not change colour. From grey to grey. Little white lies boost morale, inspire good feelings, but let's call a spade a spade. Aging is as unnatural as turning the other cheek when you are singled out and made fun of."

"No one expects you to like getting old. If getting old were no big deal, if the thought of dying were as appealing as drinking a cool glass of lemonade on a hot day, if mortality were a joke, would life be worth living? Make a list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket and then do them. Stay in the moment. How many clichés do you need before you get it? You got one life to live, enjoy it."

If only I could do as suggested ... if only I could live it up. If only I could sing in the rain. If only I could forget my problems. If only aging would come as second nature, I might — just might — be happy. I want direction. I want to take a course, "How to Age Gracefully, 101," pass it with flying colours and be done with it. On to the next challenge! Unfortunately, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

My husband does not agree. Picking up his wood recorder, he insists that aging is like learning to play a musical instrument. You have to learn how to do it so that it becomes second nature. All you will get from a violin or piano is noise if you don't practice.

If I want to age well (I sure do!), I should do the required exercises. I should, I suppose, turn to the mirror as would a musician turn to Mozart and Bach. (What's there not to love?) Unfortunately, I can't do it. All the mirrors I come across either snarl or bite.

Getting old is easy, staying young is hard work — it's a full-time occupation. I should quit while I'm ahead, or risk being told: "You're fired." No one can turn back the clock.

God must have dropped out of school (trade school!) because his most famous creation, the human body, leaves much to be desired. It doesn't stand the test of time. You can argue a craftsman would get rid of the flaws before he puts his product on the market but God (assuming there is one) is more like a top-notch artist. He doesn't care what anyone thinks. Possibly God thinks of himself as a work-in-progress. A masterpiece-in-the-making.

The problem is every time I check out the mirror I am not pleased with God's handiwork. Aging is a mistake. A recall is in order. I wish I could file a class action suit.

Built-in obsolescence has its advantages in a market economy. I shouldn't knock it. Many children are dying to be born. Still, I'm not so self-sacrificing. Every time I look down and see yet another spider vein crawling up my leg, I take God's name in vain. I break the first commandment and I am not ashamed of it.

Ideally, I should spend more time doing good works and less time looking at myself in the mirror, and then I might not only forgive God for his mistakes, but my own as well. But the fact is I'm envious of those half my age. Young women go to beauty shops; old women, to hospitals. Young women have bad hair days; old women don't have much hair to complain about. Young women pester their hairdressers to work miracles and expect them to deliver; old women demand the same from their doctors. Old women are given new hips, new hearts and, when everything else fails, a new way of thinking. (A pill does the trick!) Young women indulge in gossip; old women say nothing. They might want to say: "Why am I dying, and you're not?" but luckily their lips are sealed.

Dr. George Nemeth, my husband and (in)constant therapist, tells me: "Worrying about getting older will do you no good. It's best to go to a cemetery and put your problems in perspective."

If I had listened to his advice over the years I might have matured — gone from stage one: teenhood (young and stupid) to stage two: adulthood (old and wise). Instead, I managed to get stupider and stupider.

Is it just me? Or is it that in every child there is a sage, and in every old hag, a broken spirit? All I know for sure is that everyone, young or old, is a Merry-Wanna-Be. If I could turn to the mirror, without prejudice, as a child would turn to a candy shop, I might be in for a treat, but that's not about to happen. Often, when I turn to the mirror or the scale, I wonder: How can this be — I eat less and weigh more? Menstruation isn't a curse, menopause is. The scale: a bad news bible.

Gaining weight past fifty is like: a) travelling in a third world country and being pulled over for speeding (pay the bribe, or go to jail); b) having your air conditioner break down on the hottest day of the year; c) identifying with a nun who has been kicked out of the convent because of a certain sex toy found among her things; or d) all of the above?

My husband tells me: "When you get to be an old fart, it's easy...