BY LOIS DESOCIO

Is this the year that the allure of “me” begins to wither its way towards unseemly? Or innocuous? Is this the year that I may age-out of being irresistible? I’ve turned 58 years old.

This is my new fear about aging. So far, I’ve managed to not dwell on the cliched, much-mourned about, typical, in-your-50s losses: I no longer look like my 25, 35, or 45-year-old self (Been there. And survived). My cheekbones are starting to form the skyward, upper reaches of a V-shaped face, with my chin and neck falling towards pointy – kind of like going from perky to pelican (I just try to smile a lot to pull it all up). My knees are really starting to hurt when I bend them (Then don’t bend them! Downward dog pose gets you to the same place).

Or even that I’m meandering my way towards dead. None of that really rattled me at 57.

But what I don’t want to become is tired and dull, and therefore done. I hope that I will never, unexpectedly, and without warning or remedy, lose my ability to see the enchantment and delight in life, and will therefore become less enchanting and delightful, regardless of what I look like. Worse would be if I didn’t care. Because, to me, it’s allure that makes someone attractive, and can keep us all going. It’s begot from confidence; spirit. That human magnetism that draws people to you – entices, intrigues, beguiles. I look for that in people. It transcends physical beauty, the eye-of-the-beholder kind, which will not be beholding to you for life.

Hopefully, the flimsier the potency of the seen, the firmer the unseen, the inner beauty. Your appeal oozes even more from what you exude, not how you look. Those intangibles – charm, rapture, kindness. People enjoy being around you. We all know the beauty with no personality whose attractiveness is diminished with every spoken word, and the less-than beauty, whose effusiveness and exuberance paints a glorious glow over their physical selves. Their allure is a constant.

Of course, praise for all these inner workings, does not mean that I don’t have my moments of lamenting over the realization that, undeniably, from this point on, only one head (maybe), not all, will turn (sometimes) for a second look. That I will no longer be able to run down the beach with unbounded joy into the ocean without looking like … just picture it.

But I do get a new kind of satisfaction at any comment that may hint at the possibility that “really old, wrinkled, and maybe dull,” is not coming at breakneck speed.

When I told my mom recently that, in two years, when we go to the movies, I will be asking for: “Two seniors …”

“Well, they’ll have to proof you,” she said, without a flinch. “Because they will not believe yours is the face of a 60 year old.”

Yes, it’s my mom speaking. But she’s honest, and is never one to mince words: “You’re nothing but a party girl” (8th grade); “What’s the matter with your hair?” (last Monday). And she would never dole out disingenuous praise.

So that comment will help to fuel my alluring smile at least until 60.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Morning sun on soil.

Since I began to move through this proverbial midpoint in life, the easy-going and flexible me has been noticing that there are a few things that I will absolutely not stand for, and will not budge on. Take cleaning up after a dinner party – as in: Do Not Clean. I like to save that task for the morning. I want to wake up to the mess from the night before. It reminds me of how much fun I had. I especially love that first shuffle into the kitchen the next morning, often after not enough sleep, and feeling a bit green. I survey the wreckage: dirty dishes in the sink, grainy glasses clumped together on the counter, soiled napkins under the dining room table, crumbs all over the place, sticky forks, saggy candles, stained tablecloth, chewed toothpicks …

Understand, that no one else in my house is allowed this luxury. I would holler at my kids if they left so much as a glass in the sink on a normal day (“Clean up! Put that in the dishwasher!”), but would also holler if they started moving plates during, and after, a party (“Don’t clean up! Get away from the dishwasher!”)

This is a good morning.

What all of this really comes down to – the essence in that leftover clutter – is the joy I get from bringing people together to eat. I can’t get enough of it, so let me stretch it out as much as possible. Let me have a visual mulling-over of the whole night on the next day. I’m especially wedded to this as I’ve become aware of the value of time spent with friends and family. The certainty of years of dinner parties to come is more fragile than it used to be. I treasure that fraternity that develops through hours spent eating, drinking and talking at the dinner table – I don’t want it to miss a beat. And I don’t want to miss anything, so I spend days beforehand cooking, and setting up every last detail, so everything is covered and ready to go the next day. All I have to do is set the party in motion and jump in. And stay. Clean-up duty is never invited – it would cut the night short, and deprive me of my post-party pleasure. (I often have to gently remind my well-meaning friends as the night wears down: “Sit down! Don’t clean up!”)

And the little gems that pop up after any gathering, like that half-full bottle of wine that I recently found, spilled, in the bathroom, would most likely have caused a huff and an eye-roll had I found it in a cleaning frenzy in the wee hours after the party. But the next morning, in the glow of the after party, I smiled. It meant my guests had as much fun as I did, and didn’t feel the need to clean up.

Sometimes, even the food stays out all night.