Over the weekend one of my favorite people in the world turned 33 and if you are playing along at home, that would make the lovely Marci just shy of 11 years older than I. Obviously, I can over look this, given that she’s already gotten to my list of favorites and to be a favorite of mine is kind of like scoring a 1600 on the SATs: seemingly impossible and yet there are still a few who get it. What can I say? I’m picky (and mean).
To be honest, none of this has to do with Marci’s age and the fact that she looks about 18, even though it’s all spectacular. What it is, is that many years ago, when I was a mere babe, 24 was the magical age. I had envisioned marriage and an actual real life child by the age of 24. I couldn’t tell you how I got that age in my head, I suppose it just seemed perfect and in hindsight it’s beyond ridiculous and makes me want to cry a little bit. Now that I think about it, a lot of things that I thought when I was just a child (HA! Still am one) make me cry a bit.
It’s all apropos of nothing, except to say that now I’m making every attempt to figure out why I was rushing so much. Only now does it feel like rushing because I’m fast upon the magic age and am nowhere near a maturity level where I could actually put forth a child from my womb and raise it not to be an arsonist. In fact any child that I have anytime soon will not only be an arsonist but also a thief for good measure.
The rush to do something by 30 was just there and now…I don’t know…things just feel more fluid. 33 no longer feels “old” and 22 makes me feel like a baby. Thankfully my friends of the over 30 set, love me and I love them and they’ve honestly all taught me to be more grounded and to not stress about that next step. They might read this and think that I’m making backhanded comments about their age and that I have some misconceptions about getting older and that it may not be as easy as they all have made it look. Or maybe I’ve just developed grandeur notions of what getting older really means and it certainly doesn’t mean rushing into things, but more accepting things as they come at you.
I wish I could tell my 10 year old self to rethink things and that 19 – 22 will suck so badly that the thought of doing anything but being entirely selfish and spending way too much at Nordstrom, requires way too much effort. I should also tell her that she’ll end up being the laziest person on earth and will fail biology, so she will never be a doctor. Sad, but true. I would be remiss not to tell her to be really appreciative of everything and that the friends she will acquire are flippin’ fantastic. I mean they must be, to deal with someone who has the maturity of a baby seal.*
*originally I had planned to post a picture of myself - protruding clavacle, oily skin and all - giving Marci the finger at her birthday happy hour. But umm yeah. No.