48 and counting, but I’m not slowing down yet.

You catch yourself staring at those yoga pants like they owe you something, the fabric pulled tight across curves that forty-eight years have only sharpened into something more deliberate, more knowing.

You feel the pull immediately — not just physical, but something older, the kind of want that settles low in your chest before it moves anywhere else.

You understand without being told that this body has learned exactly what it wants and stopped apologizing for it, and standing here looking, you realize you're the lucky one in this exchange.