My sister and I were talking the other day. I was home sick with a cold; she had the week off work. Out of the blue, something urged her to check in on me at the exact same time I happened to be walking by my often misplaced phone. I picked up and what ensued was a rare and extravagant two-hour conversation. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I talked to anyone on the phone for two hours, especially my family. Our connecting these days mostly happens via text. For one thing, we live in different time zones, but we’re also navigating different life stages and our schedules usually don’t jive.

I should offer a little backstory for a minute. There are five of us—two boys, two girls, and me. My parents had three children in their twenties, and two in their early 40s. One big family, but two distinct generations. My older brother and sisters are Baby Boomers, my younger brother and I are Gen Xers. By the time I was 10, my 20-something sibs were married and gone from the house. When I was a teen and young adult, they were having babies. As I raised little ones, they were sending theirs to college. And now, while I’m still deeply entrenched in parenthood, they are becoming grandparents and planning retirement. Growing up, my two sisters were more like cool parents than sibs: taking me places, talking me off the ledge, normalizing as best they could a chaotic home life. Honestly, I’m not sure I would have survived childhood without them.

So it was a treat to luxuriate in conversation with her. We talked about modern Christianity (she’s a pastor), creativity (she’s a writer and master gardener), and community building (she creates healing spaces and wellness programs) before landing squarely on the topic of aging. Now here’s the thing, my sister is 64. She’s already been to and left the party that I just arrived at. Fifty is old news. While I’m lamenting the upheaval of this decade, she’s warning, just wait until 60. And it’s always been this way. Already in my 40s, she was urging me to take it easy and not overstress my body. “Walking and tai chi are all you need,” she would advise. And I would secretly flip her the bird and sign up for the next kickboxing class or something equally badass just to the prove her wrong. Of course, I now have egg all over my face after training waaaay too hard a couple of months ago and triggering a health episode. But I guess that’s how it goes: even at 51, you still don’t want to listen to your parents.

While talking, she posited that on some level we hate our aging selves–frustrated by what our bodies can no longer do; disappointed by our waning beauty; confused by the youthfulness of our spirit versus our physical decline. And while I bristled at the word hate, I have to say that I agree. Case in point, my overtraining back in June. The reason I was working out so hard in the first place was that I’d engaged my dear friend, Sue, in a 30-day exercise challenge. The pact was to complete some form of physical activity every day, including three long workouts a week, and to text daily when finished. Harmless and healthy, right? EXCEPT that my real intention behind the challenge was that I wanted to wear a bikini on my upcoming vacation. I mean, a lot of people my age still wear bikinis, right? Not an unreasonable goal. EXCEPT that I didn’t want to look my age in my bikini; I wanted to look, say, 35 or maybe even 25. Hence the six-mile hill running in 90-degree weather. Fantastic training to get that 35-year old body; not so great for the 51-year old heart.

The thing is, we blame ageism on the young, believing the discrimination stems from them. But maybe it’s our own youth-obsessed, self-loathing older selves who actually fuel the judgment. I watched the movie Book Club the other day, so excited to see a film starring and about an all-older cast of women. And while I love all of the actresses and the idea of the film, I wanted to jump through my screen and grab hold of Jane Fonda’s hand while she frolicked all Fellini-like in a fountain with Don Johnson. Are you kidding me? Everything emanating from her said, I shouldn’t be here. Please don’t let me break a hip. Hey, director, any chance we can do this bit on solid ground? Don’t get me wrong, at 80 Jane Fonda remains incredibly sexy and vibrant. In fact, she had more energy than most of the cast. But the message of the film, about living your life to the fullest as you age, somehow got lost in the bigger effort to make older people appear young. By contrast, in an episode of Grace and Frankie last season there was an incredible scene where Jane Fonda (struggling with her aging body) pulls off her false eyelashes, wipes clean the make-up from her face, and presents her naked self to her younger lover. It was a breathtaking and breakthrough moment. And it was spot on real.

So what do we do? There’s no way I’m going to grow old lying down. For one thing, I live in LA and this town does not suffer aging lightly. Not to mention that I want to feel and look the best I can for as long as I can. On the other hand, that 35-year old I keep reminiscing over is long gone, and the more I try to hold on to her, the more I perpetuate the idea that 51 isn’t as good. And that won’t do. As God is my witness, I will not be the one keeping that myth alive.

I don’t know, maybe it is time to finally listen to my sister and take it easy. Hell, there’s gotta be a tai chi marathon going on somewhere.