I’m turning 40 this year.
I’m going to close out my fourth decade (and sorry folks, 40 is actually the LAST year of your 30s and NOT the first year of your 40s – #fightme) and unlike many people, I’m happy to be older.
After all, the only way to not grow old is to die young. No thanks.
The thing is, (and I’m sure most people at my age agree), I don’t feel 40. (Well, I’m not 40 yet, I guess – but you know what I mean.)
I don’t feel “old.”
In my mind, I just turned 30. How is it that I’m turning 40?
[clickToTweet tweet=”What I miss is that feeling – that #swagger – I used to have. Or maybe I never had it and I am remembering my young adulthood all wrong. #aging ” quote=”What I miss is that feeling – that swagger – I used to have. Or maybe I never had it and I am remembering my young adulthood all wrong.” theme=”style1″]
Again, I don’t mind. Given the choice between aging and not aging at all, I choose the aging – gracefully or no.
Truthfully, I often think that I’m really an old lady in disguise. The thought of going out to parties, to large gatherings, or trendy things, I find even the idea exhausting. Which is so odd to me since I used to want to be in the mix of things.
The older I get, the more I long for real connection with people – and it’s really hard to achieve that in a loud, raucous bar or club or party. I far prefer small groups of people (perhaps a max of 6) and good conversation. Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by tiny humans who are cute but don’t usually skew towards edified conversation, but I long for witty banter, flirty repartee, or deep discussions on almost anything.
So, I find it amusing that even I can succumb to the temporary glamour of reality TV shows. I remember when The Real World, Rock of Love, or Survivor first came on and I would wonder how I would behave only to laugh because there is no way on this green Earth that I would ever compete for a has-been rock “star” or try to survive in the wild with strangers.
The Real World was likely the closest thing that I would try – but even that seemed like way too much partying. I couldn’t fathom people living like that on a daily basis (let alone the occasional basis).
When I’m not wondering how I would fare on a reality TV show, (The answer is: miserably. I really am one of those people better in small doses. My husband is a saint.) I often wonder what people are thinking of me when I go about town without my children.
Look, the wondering has to be without the children because if I am with the children, it’s obvious I’m a harried SAHM. People do not look beyond that and I am near invisible in public because of this unless one of my children is misbehaving.
Anyhow, I wonder how people perceive me, if they think I’m attractive, if they think I’m young, if they think I’m working, if I am anything other than as I am. But other than the places I frequent, I doubt people are thinking of me at all. (And at the places I frequent, they only notice me because I spend a lot of money there and it behooves them to notice!)
I bring this up only because occasionally, I suffer from delusions of coolness or youth. It would just be less awkward for all if I just accepted that my conscious choice to dress permanently in sweat or yoga pants has seriously affected my “it” factor. And if I’m wearing my weekly outfit, how put together could I really be? (This is when I am super grateful for homeschooling.)
[clickToTweet tweet=”The only way to not grow old is to die young. No thanks. #aging #thisis39 ” quote=”The only way to not grow old is to die young. No thanks.” theme=”style1″]
What I miss is that feeling – that swagger – I used to have. Or maybe I never had it and I am remembering my young adulthood all wrong. I wonder if I will ever get it back (assuming I had it in the first place).
It’s hard to swagger when holding a squirmy 17 month old. Maybe I’ll get it back when I turn 40.