I think it might finally be time for me to admit that I’m not as young as I once was. Yes, yes, I know. I’m only thirty, it’s not like I’ve got one foot in the grave or anything. But let’s face it. Thirty may be the new twenty, but it isn’t the new eighteen. I’ve been coming to realize that I still think of myself as I did in college, yet I look in the mirror and there’s a fully grown woman staring back at me, with the beginnings of laugh lines, wrinkles and gray hair.
This morning I was at the sink in the break room at work, when one of our managers came in. Apropos of nothing, she asked me if I used to be a dancer. Maybe it was the way I was standing, I’m not sure. I immediately responded, “I did,” and that was the end of that. But it made me realize that her operative words were used to. And it’s true. I used to dance, I don’t anymore. Not at the level I once did, anyway.
There’s a lot of things I don’t do anymore. And that’s normal. It’s part of life. You grow up, you move on. Things change, and that’s how it should be. Life would be boring if it stayed the same forever.
But it isn’t always easy to deal with the changes, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been in denial, although not consciously so. Maybe I’ve been going through a midlife crisis of sorts (my husband says he hopes it is a phase). I’m not sure how else to explain this sudden compulsion to get a tattoo, re-pierce my ear cartilage and dye my hair. I mean, these are certainly things I’ve always wanted to do, thought about doing, but never actually pulled the trigger (well, except for the ear. And I’ve also had my bellybutton pierced two different times).
Hey, wait a minute. I know what it is. How does that saying go? With age comes…balls? Yes, that must be it. I’m not having a crisis, I just finally have the guts to do the things I’ve always wanted. Heh.
In all seriousness, though, I’m very, very happy with who I have become. I feel completely comfortable in my own skin, more than I have in my entire life. I feel like I’ve gotten more attractive with age – I’m not that awkward, gawky teen with a bad haircut and over-plucked eyebrows. (At least I don’t think so.) I’m still gangly, to be sure, but not much to be done about that. It is what it is.
I’m rambling a little, but my point (wait for it, I HAVE A POINT) is that maybe growing old isn’t quite as bad as I was afraid it would be. No, I’m not a teenager anymore, but look what I have to show for it: a husband I adore, two beautiful children, a nice house, and a job that I love.
But I still want to get another tattoo.
