I recently found myself on an unofficial fried chicken tour of Kentucky and Tennessee, and as I merrily ate my way through that swath of the country, I had no regrets. A few weeks later, I still have no regrets, for if there is one thing more delicious than eating fried chicken, it is eating fried chicken and really enjoying it. This reaction surprises me. A decade ago, even a few years ago, punitive measures would have been imposed: increased exercise, decreased food, some self-berating, possibly even tears. There would have been mention of the push-up diet, of the increased cardio tour of Savannah, Georgia. All over a lousy few pieces of fried chicken. But these days, I remain unrepentant. And I harbor a dirty little secret: If the rare treat of really good fried chicken presents itself again, I will eat it and I will enjoy it. This is my manifesto.

I clearly underestimated the power of hair.

Regular readers know that I have decided to go grey. It started at Chris’ request, and I struggled at first. There was questioning and tears, denial and anger, reluctance and acceptance — sort of a short-lived and condensed 12 Steps, tonsorial version.

I now love it. Love it! You know why? Nobody really cares what color my hair is. Nobody.

Well, nobody but me.

When your hair has spent the last 14 years trying to remain at a holding pattern of making you look 35 years old, you realize several things. Mostly, what a weather-beaten 35 year old you really are. How nobody believes that you’re really 35 since your children are 18 and 20. And how maybe you don’t want to be 35 anyway. Yes, the age involved good knees, and unlike this year, it didn’t involve scheduling an appointment with a primary care physician solely to get a prescription for the really good anti-inflammatories to quell your arthritis. (Shout out here to Mobic!) But 35 brought young children, confusion, exhaustion, overscheduling, and (at least for me) a sort of slow, angry simmer from being torn in so many directions all at once.

It wasn’t easy, being 35.

But now when I look in the mirror, I have abandoned all pretense. The salt and pepper hair is a very clear reminder that I am a woman nearing 50 — lines, wrinkles, and all. It explains why crow’s feet appear when I smile. (Shout out here to a lifetime of smiling!) I like how the dimple on my left cheek looks more pronounced with some deeper lines, like back-up singers, to reinforce it. Mostly, the hair serves as a visible reminder to be kind to myself and to respect my age.

Here is a recent picture of me. You cannot see the friends who surround me; you cannot hear the music I hear. You may think I look better or younger or prettier in other pictures, all of which is undoubtedly true. But in this picture, I look exactly like myself:

And I love that.

While I was abandoning all pretense, I decided to revamp my exercise routine. What would you do, I asked myself, if you really didn’t care if you were a size six ever again and cared only that you were healthy and happy? And I replied, I would walk every single day.

And that is what I now do. Every morning, I put on my sneakers, and plug in my earbuds, and I close the door behind me. I walk onto my street just as the sun arises, and for 2.5 miles, I go. I walk under the arches of the old sprawling trees, through the fresh air and into the green, and I smile at neighbors and avoid cars and occasionally stop to talk.

I also listen to podcasts. My new favorite is “Dear Sugars,” whose two hosts read letters from often heartbroken listeners and dispense advice. Surely you have seen the Facebook posts telling you how to determine your Harry Potter wizard name or your entertainer name or a Shakespearean epithet tailored just for you. If you haven’t, you typically choose something from each of three or four categories and go. This is how the letters on Dear Sugars sound — slightly categorical, slightly implausible, slightly bizarre. Who are these people? I walk and wonder. Are they making this all up? For part of the letter holds together, but there’s always a big surprise or a major omission.

Mostly I think about how very sweet my life is indeed for not having to flesh out these type of problems with “Dear Sugars.”

The best advice I have received lately has come indirectly, from the results of a study about sleep and marital relationships. If both partners sleep enough, there is typically little marital discord. If neither partner sleeps enough, there is typically a lot of marital discord. But if only one partner sleeps enough, that partner can hold it together enough for the both of you and avoid marital discord.

Let us just say that I have never been the partner described in that last scenario. After 25 years, I clearly have a big pillow to fill. So I have been really working on getting more sleep. I think the walking helps, even with that.

But “Dear Sugars” featured a letter in a recent episode that no doubt tanked in the ratings, for it was altogether shockingly normal. An accountant hated her job; she wanted to be a writer. She asked how long she had to continue accounting before she quit, and what she needed to do to pursue her dream.

The call-in guest was a writer and a college professor. One of the best things about the call-in guests on this show is that they uniformly try to sound surprised that the hosts are calling them. No doubt it would be much more interesting endeavor if the surprise were genuine. Alas, the surprise was not genuine, but the advice was.

The writer told the accountant that the benefit of the artistic life was that it forces you to pay attention and bring a certain precision to your circumstances and surroundings. You become a writer because you write, not because you merely think about writing, and you tend to write about what you know. The writer cautioned that it was easy not to write because of a fear that you wouldn’t be any good, but that that the fear plagued everyone. It was a fool’s game to wait for extraordinary experiences or a large block of time to write since those things rarely happened.

Ultimately, it was not about the outcome, but about the endeavor, because life offers no guarantees of success.

My walk and the podcast ended at the same time, and emboldened by the writer’s words, I decided to sign up for a week-long plein air painting course next month at an art school in the Great Smoky Mountains. I had eyed this course for at least six months with a great deal of longing, and I had many times imagined myself at an easel learning how to paint landscapes. Unfortunately, I had imagined even more times how I would be an utter failure at the endeavor, too inexperienced, untalented, green. I had not signed up, but that day was the day. I went to my computer to register . . .

. . . and the class was full. The art school was taking no other applicants.

I licked my wounds for a few days, and then Chris and I spent 24 very fun hours with some long-time friends a few hours away. We had that picture taken, talked a lot, ate even more, raised a glass or two, and heard a wildly talented husband and wife duo, Shovels and Rope. One of their lyrics jumped out at me:

I need more fingers to count the ones I love/This life may be too good to survive.

I realized that that, perhaps, was the greatest real problem in my life: I needed more fingers to count the ones I love. If I am being honest, I have run out of toes, too.

Which is not really a problem. Not at all. Get over yourself, girl, I counseled. Don’t just think about it. Really live.

So in this great big electronic world, I offered to paint custom oil paintings of houses, just in time for Christmas. I touted my rock bottom rates, my love of color. Gauguin was a stockbroker before he sold everything — even his friend Van Gogh’s sunflower painting, which held the pride of place over his bed — to move to Tahiti to paint naked women. I have no dreams of moving to Tahiti to paint naked women. But I have dreams of small works of art, created in moments of intense focus and delicious happiness, hanging in homes of friends and strangers. I have fear, yes, but I also have grey hair. Surely I am wiser now. The mirror tells me so.

I have a generous handful of commissions, enough work to occupy my evenings for the next few months. I dream of my own home, my back up against my favorite chair, brush in hand, Buddy nearby. I can smell the paints and the linseed oil, and I can hear Chris puttering in the kitchen. I will sometimes paint with my daughter, sometimes paint while talking to my son. I will walk, and it will help me sleep. We will maintain the peace. And I will be grateful about my bold, sweet life, about the lovely predicament of needing more fingers to count the ones I love.

ALC