Every year of my life, it was a day I looked forward to with
feelings of excitement and gleeful trepidation.
Every year of my life, it was a day I looked forward to with feelings of excitement and gleeful trepidation.
A day to celebrate the one thing I love most – me.
Every year of my life, I looked forward to my birthday like a fat kid looks forward to dessert.
Every year, until this year.
Last week I turned the big two four, and this year it wasn’t exciting and it wasn’t eventful. It was a reminder that the downward spiral of getting old has been set in motion and birthdays have become another way to gauge how much weight I gained or what’s sagging a little lower since the last one.
I know I’m not that old – not even a quarter of a century yet – but I’m also not 21 anymore with that feeling you have when everything is ahead of you and ripe for the taking; and you can do and see whatever your little heart desires.
Maybe it’s the fact that I spent my birthday this year working all day instead of partying all day – something I’ve had nightmares about in the past but never really believed would happen until now.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m now at “the age” when people get married, have kids and settle down.
Or maybe it’s because for the first time in my entire life the crushing realization that one day I really will be old – not just 24 old, but 44, 54, even 64 – hit me. And that scares the hell out of me.
I’ve heard the tired adage about getting better with age – the wiser, more self-assured garbage that only people who are old tell you.
And do you know why they tell you that?
Because things aren’t just sagging a little, they’re sagging a lot. And those smile lines around their mouth are now full-blown wrinkles that jig and jag across their entire face, and telling themselves they’re wise and self-assured is just a way to trick themselves into not being pissed off their body’s going to hell in a hand basket.
But the physical aspects of getting old are only part of what scares me.
When I was 21 it was easy to tell myself I had plenty of time to do all the things I want to do and accomplish all the things I want to accomplish.
I still have the time to do a lot of the stuff I want to do, but there were a lot of things I wanted to do in between 21 and 24 that I never did.
What if between 24 and 64 I don’t do all the things I think I’ve got plenty of time for?
What will my life amount to then?
I’ve thought a lot about these types of questions since welcoming in another year, and while a lot of them are depressing and dispiriting, I guess I’ll just have to hang on to the fact that I’m not wrinkly yet, and my stuff’s not that saggy yet, and I’m not even a quarter of a century old… yet.
And if my mama was sitting next to be right now, she’d tell me to get over it and stop worrying so much.
Because worrying gives you wrinkles.
