Aging: The inevitable mosquito

I had a feeling this day would come…it has been slowly blowing across my shoulder like a whisper, well perhaps more like a mosquito that I kept swatting away. I don’t know if I’m trying to deny the inevitable or perhaps I’m in a funk or have some preconceived inkling that I should feel a certain way so I am trying to turn into something else in a resentful manner. Maybe it’s Winter. It’s easy to blame the snow on my mood. Perhaps a lack of sun is playing tricks with my brain and yet I can’t help but conclude that I may have reached that point in my life where I feel I have crossed over that hill between youth and mid-life and fell into that sinkhole where I can honestly say without trepidation “I think I’m getting old.”

I do not like this. I do not feel “older” inside and my mind is like a rainbow of vibrancy ready to burst through my eyeballs and yet many of my surroundings and subtle hints along the way are leading to this conclusion.  Case in point: I went to brunch with 5 girlfriends yesterday. We went to a bar in northeast called Legends. Their specialty is Bloody Mary’s and vodka sunrises however nobody ordered alcohol. (I would have but everyone else got virgin Bloody Mary’s and since I hate that drink I ordered a hot tea with lemon- who orders that in a bar?!) Last year at this time I was bar hopping in 4 inch pumps and green attire with a flashing leprechaun on my left tit and swinging down colored beers while chanting along to Irish songs. I do believe I was prancing, gleefully down Grand Avenue and it felt GOOD. I was also hiding my grief behind a mug of beer but it felt right and it worked. The sun was also shining and I felt more alive, ready to live every day of my life like it could be my last. This year on St. Patrick’s day I was at a bar not drinking, dressed in all black and discussing the proper age to potty train a child and getting excited about planning a garage sale. I love my girlfriends and I really need to sell some shit at a garage sale, but how is it that I suddenly feel like I have aged 10 years in the span of one. What’s my problem?

Am I old? Middle aged? Young at heart but wrinkled on the eyes? Looking back I remember the strange point where you’re in your mid-to late twenties and every now and then you go into a bar and don’t get carded. You know you’re over 21 and know you look over 21 but you wonder why everyone else thinks you look over 21. Then you’d meet some guys and they’d ask your age and your girlfriends would say with a cute smirk “how old do you think we are?” They’d say 22 when you’re 25 or 25 when you’re 27 and you sort of giggle inside thinking it’s a compliment (even though they’re likely humoring you) and then there’s the day where your 26 year old girlfriend asks that innocent little question of “how old do you think I am?” and the guy says “28?” And that’s the day you no longer ask that stupid question. Who the hell cares anyway? There’s nothing wrong with looking your age, that only makes sense, but when someone guesses you’re older than you are? You’d think the world was ending.

It’s true what they say; when you’re 16 you want to look 21 and when you’re 28 you want to look 22. Life moves on. Numbers go up. Breasts go down. It’s all relative, it’s all gravity. It’s life. My whole issue lately is trying to decide when the hell this aging thing seemed to hit me so hard. I try to figure out exactly what has changed and when the hell it happened. I’m happy. I love my life. I want to embrace this whole getting older thing and not let a silly number dictate how I behave but I have a difficult time with maturity and adulthood. I’m a big kid and I like to rebel and stand on my own little pedestal while peering into the box that everyone else is thinking inside of. I am a black sheep. I march to my own drum in my own band on my own turf in my own world. I can’t control the getting older thing and quite frankly, it ruffles my feathers (my bold, sparkly, in-your-face feathers).

What changes? When I look in the mirror I still see the eyes of that six year old girl in blonde ponytails with 3 pieces of pink hubba bubba gum in her mouth, trying to blow a bubble bigger than her head. I still like her. She was comfortable in her skin and effortless in her confidence. I still feel like I want to draw pictures with colored pencils and play hopscotch til the sun goes down. Maybe I just miss the fresh air of Summer.

Aging is hard because the number tells a different story than my mind. I feel like it’s a deception of reality, a lie almost. Not that 35 is a bad number or anything, but I feel like I don’t match the mold.  I’m not ready for this sinkhole I feel like I’ve fallen into.  I see eye bags that don’t belong on my face, wrinkles that don’t blend with this skin and the aging hairs that don’t belong on my head and I will never embrace that shit. I feel healthy, full of energy, and I feel like I will forever be in my 20’s no matter how many days I wake up and how many calendar pages I flip. The hands of time will always be in control and I will keep getting older and older and older but my heart will forever be young and that will never change.

So the whole “I think I’m getting old” thing? The thought is inevitable. I just need to rephrase it as a positive: “I’m blossoming with age.” “I’m ripe in my years.” “I’m growing with enthusiasm.” Screw it. I’m getting old, but nonetheless, it’s still better than the alternative and I’m very grateful to be alive even if I have to swat at my age like a mosquito.