Gray Matters

 

Today is my birthday.

Thank you.

I am thirty-two years old. I'm telling you now, out loud, not out of pride, but to get it out of the way.

I have finally reached the point where I'm offended when people ask me how old I am, instead of being ambivalent. It seems a rude question, when only a few short years ago it was just an ice-breaker.

I wonder when things changed? When a 'good day' was one where I woke up without hip pain. When I'd rather take a five-minute detour than work up the energy to hop a fence. When my new boss was younger than me. When getting carded at the grocery store was no longer an embarrassment, but a bona fide compliment. When did I actually start feeling old?

As stereotyped as it might sound, I think age rushed on me when I had a child. When Mr. C was only a few months old, I remember looking into a mirror and wondering at the broken-looking woman tiredly staring back at me. Maybe it was the sleeplessness and stress of having a newborn that was temporarily bringing me down. But I did turn the big Three-Oh that year, so maybe it was just inevitable.

I've always had issues with age. A mature (in many ways) youngster, I felt trapped in a body much too young for my soul. I couldn't relate to those my own age: I wasn't interested in the petty things that so occupied their time. I didn't want to do what was 'popular'. While all my classmates swooned over the teen hunk of the day, I always pictured my soul-mate being in his mid-thirties.

My dreams stopped in my thirties, though; I guess I figured that, once you got to your thirties, you were confident and adult. And that, basically, is what happened for me.  And now that I've reached my thirties, my mental age and my physical age are the same. Which means, I've reached the peak that I aspired to for all those years. So, naturally, now there's nowhere to go but to shit.

Even as a teenager, I wanted to get older, but I didn't want to be old. The thought of going from strong and limber to weak and stiff was terrifying. I worried about losing my independence and being afraid to drive at night. How would I deal with the disrespect I'd get from the youth of tomorrow . . . the same placating amusement I showed my grandparents today?

And here I am, thirty-two, reassuring myself that I am now mature and confident, but still battling these fears. Even so, as I contemplate my age, I find that I'd still rather be this much closer to 'old' and how it feels than how I felt when I was younger.  Sure, my skin is starting to sag, but at least it's not nearly as acne-ridden as it once was. OK, so my thighs are wider, but I like them more now than I ever have before. Yeah, my boobs need a combination of duct tape and chicken wire to keep them up, but that's the way they're supposed to look. There is a lot of comfort in not having much expected of you, and – in a way – that makes every little extra thing I can do count for even more, and makes me more beautiful.

So, really, it's the number that's scaring me more than the reality. And, let's face it, thirty-two isn't that big of a number. When I think about my marvelous marriage, my adorable child, my supportive family and my blessed life, I realize that I've never been happier. 

It's wonderful to anticipate the many years of promised happiness to come.