Aging with both grace and doubts
On the morning of Nov. 23, 1994, I woke up and realized that I
was where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed
to be doing; questioning why I’m here. Ever since, I have not had a
problem when that particular day comes around every year, as it
inevitably does. I get it now.
Aging with both grace and doubts
On the morning of Nov. 23, 1994, I woke up and realized that I was where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing; questioning why I’m here. Ever since, I have not had a problem when that particular day comes around every year, as it inevitably does. I get it now.
I’ll admit that right before I turned 25, I had a small melt-down. Nothing serious, and nearly completely internalized. I was wondering why I hadn’t done what I’d wanted to do yet. I wasn’t where I wanted to be. I’d had all these grand plans for my life, but what really happened was real life. The kind of life that happens when you’re really living; bills, a growing family, broken down cars, various jobs hated in different degrees and sometimes no job at all and moving across the country. Several times.
I’ll say it, proudly. I am 36 years old and come Nov. 23, I will be 37. I am not one of those women who lie or give cryptic, ridiculous responses when asked about my age. I see no reason.
I look my age, do all the things people my age do; go to work, come home, raise a family and complain about gas prices.
Maybe I’m still that kid who right before their 10th birthday is all excited because they will be a whole decade old. To me, every birthday is as cool as that one when I finally got the big bike.
But we are different, The Husband and I. He has been 29 for nine years now. It’s beginning to get annoying. As I get older, his age has stagnated. It’s even more irritating because he is actually a year and five days older than I am, and never lets me forget it, any other day of the year.
He thinks he’s got all this life experience on me simply because he was potty trained a whole year before me.At least, I would hope so. But when his birthday arrives, he is suddenly 29. Again. He means it, too. I won’t try to put 38 candles on his ice cream cake (trust me, no other kind will do) and risk another temper tantrum like last year.
I am beginning to wonder what will happen when The Girl eventually turns 29, and then The Boy. Dad can’t be the same age. Some people refuse to grow older gracefully. He’s kicking and screaming.
The Kids are a reminder of our mortality. In all that they do, we are reminded of ourselves at the same age. I am enjoying watching The Girl grow up and do the same things I did, with the same amount of “know-it-all-ness.”
The Boy is another issue. I have never been a boy, so I am not sure what comes with the territory, other than collecting Pokemon cards and Bionicles. I’m sure that The Husband is watching with interest.
Now it’s our turn to be The Parents, which is scary. I can remember my own parents when they were the age that I am now. They seemed to know what they were doing a lot more than I do. Unless they were just better at hiding their doubts than I am. I hope that our kids, in retrospect, will think the same thing about us.
I might not ever write the book that will launch me into fame and fortune, but I am supposed to take the journey – supposed to get the life experience that never quite catches up to The Husband’s, according to him. But on the up side, for me anyway, he’ll be back in diapers a whole year and five days before me.
