TKO
Upon the cherished art of aging gracefully.
Turning 30 last Friday wasn't the trauma I expected. Oh, I had a tough moment when I caught myself pricing kittens and kitten accoutrements with the Petsmart circular last night. (In my neighborhood, I'm already the crazy lady who lives alone in the big house. I refuse to be the crazy old lady who lives in the big house with thirty cats, most of which are named Leroy. That, I will not be.) And I almost fainted upon hearing myself say something distressingly like my grandmother this morning. (Ack!) But all in all, I'm not teetering on the brink of mental anguish. I'm not drowning within the depths of despairingly dowdy spinsterhood. I'm not wallowing in the muckity muck of self pity. I'm me just as I've always been me. And one birthday doesn't really change me as I see me. I'm not really sure why I thought it would. But it didn't.
Oh, I'm pretty bitter at Mormon men right now, but that has less to do with me than it has to do with him in particular (the creep) and them in general (the creeps). (No offense to present company intended.) And I can't really blame that on my birthday anyway. So, there will be no sorrowful declarations of anguish. I will not prattle on in posts about the passing of my youth. There will be no period of mourning for my twenties. I'm sure you are all very pleased about that. I am, at least. I don't think that I am exaggerating to say that no one can despair quite like I can. And for my decision not to despair (particularly on my blog), we must all be thankful.
It's odd, though, thinking about myself as something other than a twenty-something. I'm no longer a member of the youngest generation in my family, which is strange. Oh, my cousins have had kids for some time now. But those were my older cousins. My cousins who are younger than me have kids now. And that is very odd. I babysat that red-headed brat who now has a baby. How can that be? Yesterday, I was wiping his snotty nose. And today, he's wiping his kids' snotty noses. It doesn't make me feel old, precisely. But it does make me feel like I'm being left out of something, like I'm missing something that I shouldn't be missing out on.
And there it is; my good old biological clock is ticking madly in double-time. That witch kept me up all last night. Oh, I shan't recap it for you. It was more of the same old junk she's always prattled, so there's no point in it. But it's not just the babies I feel like I'm missing. Mostly, I'm missing the camaraderie of belonging with someone. I'm missing the friendship that comes in parcel with being in a relationship. I'm missing the romance of loving someone. And I'm missing that feeling you get when you know you're Number 1 on someone's list.
If there's one thing I've learned recently: It's not the things you have that are bad. It's the things you don't have that administer the sucker punch.
Turning 30 last Friday wasn't the trauma I expected. Oh, I had a tough moment when I caught myself pricing kittens and kitten accoutrements with the Petsmart circular last night. (In my neighborhood, I'm already the crazy lady who lives alone in the big house. I refuse to be the crazy old lady who lives in the big house with thirty cats, most of which are named Leroy. That, I will not be.) And I almost fainted upon hearing myself say something distressingly like my grandmother this morning. (Ack!) But all in all, I'm not teetering on the brink of mental anguish. I'm not drowning within the depths of despairingly dowdy spinsterhood. I'm not wallowing in the muckity muck of self pity. I'm me just as I've always been me. And one birthday doesn't really change me as I see me. I'm not really sure why I thought it would. But it didn't.
Oh, I'm pretty bitter at Mormon men right now, but that has less to do with me than it has to do with him in particular (the creep) and them in general (the creeps). (No offense to present company intended.) And I can't really blame that on my birthday anyway. So, there will be no sorrowful declarations of anguish. I will not prattle on in posts about the passing of my youth. There will be no period of mourning for my twenties. I'm sure you are all very pleased about that. I am, at least. I don't think that I am exaggerating to say that no one can despair quite like I can. And for my decision not to despair (particularly on my blog), we must all be thankful.
It's odd, though, thinking about myself as something other than a twenty-something. I'm no longer a member of the youngest generation in my family, which is strange. Oh, my cousins have had kids for some time now. But those were my older cousins. My cousins who are younger than me have kids now. And that is very odd. I babysat that red-headed brat who now has a baby. How can that be? Yesterday, I was wiping his snotty nose. And today, he's wiping his kids' snotty noses. It doesn't make me feel old, precisely. But it does make me feel like I'm being left out of something, like I'm missing something that I shouldn't be missing out on.
And there it is; my good old biological clock is ticking madly in double-time. That witch kept me up all last night. Oh, I shan't recap it for you. It was more of the same old junk she's always prattled, so there's no point in it. But it's not just the babies I feel like I'm missing. Mostly, I'm missing the camaraderie of belonging with someone. I'm missing the friendship that comes in parcel with being in a relationship. I'm missing the romance of loving someone. And I'm missing that feeling you get when you know you're Number 1 on someone's list.
If there's one thing I've learned recently: It's not the things you have that are bad. It's the things you don't have that administer the sucker punch.
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