All about the escapades and thoughts of a girl who thinks WAY too much for her own good!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
On August 7th I will turn 40. Although I find I talk about age quite a bit, I have never worried about it. I have never been one of those people who panic about becoming the big “four-oh”. In fact, two years ago I started telling people, “I’m almost 40.” As I recall, my entire adult life I have volunteered my age.
Surprisingly to me this admission has subjected me to several lectures from various girlfriends over the years (including those younger than I am) about how I shouldn’t discuss my age. I didn’t understand what the issue was. I was proud of my age. I didn’t feel like I acted or looked my age. Why not talk about it? It’s just a number. But as that significant “number” draws nearer to being MY number, I find myself with more dread than happiness or anticipation. And for the first time in my life, I am seriously contemplating shaving off five years after the big day.
Maybe I’m feeling this way because everywhere I turn I see an article, or have a discussion, or get an email about how much the body starts to degenerate with age; how it’s significantly harder to lose weight; how all of the hair on your body starts thinning; how you stop producing collagen and elastin; how it’s harder to heal from an injury; how your ability to reproduce slows down; how your sexual drive slows down; etc., etc.
OH MY GOD! Too much information! I don't want to know this stuff!
For the last few months I have been dating someone who, let’s just say is significantly younger than I am. Significantly to the point that I won’t even tell you how much younger. One might think this is a good thing; a testament to my young spirit and looks. But dating someone a lot younger isn’t all “Demi and Ashton” glamourous.
Don't get me wrong, in some ways I feel like a total rock star that I can hold the attention of a gorgeous younger man. But, lately, it’s also making me feel more self conscience and aware of my age than even before. I’m noticing every wrinkle on my face that is not yet on his; every extra pound that is harder to shed; every sag here and every bump there. These are my own insecurities. I know every person has them. But knowing that every person has them is not lessening my own burden of having them.
Maybe it’s not so much that I am worried about becoming 40 as the dread I feel about time zipping past me without any way to slow it down. I can’t believe that I have been in Italy for nearly 8 months now. I can’t believe that I only have 2 months left. The first 20 years of my life seemed to take forever, and the last 20 have careened past me like a high speed train running late for its on-time arrival.
Remember when, as a child, a day seemed to last an eternity? And if you were looking forward to something two weeks away it felt like you had to wait an entire year? I’d like that feeling back please. Could someone please figure out a way to slow down time?