Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Its a love hate thing.
As much as I hate my age, I love my age. I've realized in the past few months that my current number is a bitch. And its only going to get worse. See, right now I'm talking to the Hannahs, Tabbys, Nikis, Taylors, and Rowans of the world. Assuming that you all actually read this, which you may... or not. Anyway. The stage you're stuck in right now sucks. It really does. You worry about what to wear, and what not to wear. What so-and-so thinks about you, or doesn't think about you. You have no idea what you want to be, but every idea what you don't want to be, and you're forced to attend hour after hour of school, where you deal with it all while passing classes, sleeping too little, and fighting raging hormones all at the same time. Its bullshit to be honest, but its a stage and its going to get worse before it gets better. But it will get better.
And then there are the Abbeys, the Tabis, the Lakens, and the Aimees of the group. You're beyond the high school drama but stuck in that freedom to do what you want, but you can't really do anything part of life. You know, you're in school, maybe 21, maybe engaged or not, maybe out looking for crazy good fun but you have that responsibility thing going. New bills, and new worries about whether you picked the right major, the right guy, the right outfit for an interview. What if you don't get a job? What if you hate your job? What if you hate your guy? Its also nuts, but in all honesty, you'd rather have that than the high school stuff, right?
So then you graduate and get married. Or not. Have kids. Or not. Get a job. Or not. And all of a sudden there is this number that used to be old. And now its not. Because you don't feel the number, you still feel that number from when you were worried about all the shit going on around you, when you were having fun. Except now you're worried about your kids, your money, your house, your parents, your neighbors, global warming. Except you have all this other crap that you've already conquered under your belt and suddenly you realize, Its not so bad to be that hideous number, because its just a number. You get to play pirates and faeries with your kids and meet Mickey Mouse all over again. You can party like a rock star without fear of being slapped with a MIP charge or puking in your car... hopefully. You can be happy staying in on a Saturday night without the fear that you're a dork, or go read because you like to, and not because you have to.
So here is the truth. I hate my number and the gray hairs that are sneaking in. I don't really like the aging thing, but I love the experience thing. I don't care if I'm a dork anymore. I don't care if the cheerleader thinks I don't wear the right shoes with my shirt because I like what I have. I know the things that matter don't mind, and the things that mind don't matter, and it all comes with that stupid number. In the words of the most annoyingly perfect woman on the planet, Its a good thing. (Kind of.)