I think I’m finally settling into my age. I don’t know what it is, but for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I don’t feel that cloying at my throat, the terror of getting older. It was there last year, it was there at 30, it was there pretty much throughout my entire 20s. Somehow, somewhere, something changed. Now I feel good.* I am not ashamed to be 32. I’m proud! I love being 32. It’s sexy. That curvy 3, the teasing 2.
I figured out why I was so scared of getting older. Because one day I would wake up and suddenly I would be an old woman. Just like that. Go to bed a young lass and wake up wrinkled and weak, with nothing to show for it.
It doesn’t work like that, though. It’s a gradual process. And I get to experience it as it happens. I welcome all the wisdom and knowledge that comes with being 32, 35, 46, 50, and so on. I love seeing older women who are so self-assured and comfortable. It pleases me and gives me hope. Especially when I compare that to the floundering, careening lives of all these young kids.
So I’m getting older, yes, but it seems to be getting better, easier, simpler. In spite of or because of a world that tries to complicate the shit out of everything? I don’t know. I just know that I’m at peace with my age, for once in my life, and it feels fantastic. One less thing I need to obsess over and freak out about. Looking back at the past decade, it seems so silly. I basically wasted my twenties being worried about my thirties, instead of truly enjoying them.
At least I have my thirties to frolic in, right? Better late than never.
* this in no way suggests that I am happy, only that I’ve come to terms with my age. Let’s save the rainbows and butterflies for someone else, please.
- in the valley
- it’s a bit of a rough start, for a girl like me