Kid: I love this color combo!
Me: Yeah, it’s quite trendy.
Kid: Whoa. You’re the first adult I’ve met who knows the word trendy.
I stood there, momentarily stunned, as my brain scrambled to grasp what had just occurred. Did she just imply I’m old?
Her eyes sparkled with excitement, as if she’d just discovered a long-lost dinosaur that might have heard of a band called Five Seconds of Summer.
Me: Back in my day, we called them punks.
Kid: The shoes?
Me: No, the whole vibe.
Kid: That’s so cool you know that!
Never thought I’d find myself in this situation. I still feel like 1990 was just a blink ago, and Madonna can’t possibly be older than 32. Yet here I am, watching the tendons in my hands start to peek through skin that’s stretching in ways I never imagined. And let’s not even talk about those rogue chin hairs! For every one I pluck, it seems like two more pop up. One day, I’ll wake up and find myself racing my partner for the clippers just to manage my morning routine.
Kids now treat me like a true grown-up. They actually listen when I tell them to stop climbing on the playground equipment. Somewhere along the line, I became that figure they automatically respect because I “look” mature. And being called “ma’am”? Oh boy, that’s becoming a regular occurrence in my life.
To be called ma’am is a bittersweet reminder that:
- I no longer look as youthful as I feel.
- I’m completely out of touch with today’s chart-toppers.
- Most twenty-somethings seem like they just hatched last week.
- Those trendy pants? Definitely not my style anymore.
- All the tweens I see now were mere twinkles in their parents’ eyes when I was tossing my cap at graduation.
In my twenties, I could eat a whole pizza and still fit into my favorite jeans. Now that I’m thirty, my body seems to store every calorie as if preparing for a winter hibernation, and I’ve suddenly discovered new areas of “adventure weight” I never knew existed—like that space between my armpit and my sideboob I lovingly refer to as my “side bacon.”
Back then, exercise was about socializing and looking cute in those tiny skirts. Now, my skirts resemble bed sheets, only fluttering when my kids decide to make a fort underneath them. Exercise has transformed from a fun activity to a necessity. If I don’t keep moving, I might just fossilize and break a hip while grabbing a stray piece of cat food off the floor.
It’s not just my body that’s aging; my entire lifestyle feels it too.
Remember when my evenings used to kick off at 8 p.m.? Now going out requires a lot of planning—finding a babysitter, getting home at a reasonable hour—and honestly, I’d rather be in my pajamas than navigating loud bars at that hour.
I’m aging, and the world is starting to notice. But hey, in fifty years, I won’t even care about those chin hairs anymore—I’ll be tucking away coupons and my AARP card in those lovely new spaces under my tendons. I still won’t know who Five Seconds of Summer is, and my side bacon will likely have transformed into side ham by then.
As I stroll around the retirement community in my well-loved Chuck Taylors, I’ll still be in denial, convinced that 1990 was just yesterday and Madonna is still in her prime.
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Summary:
A humorous reflection on aging and the unexpected realities of adulthood, this piece captures the moments when the author realizes they are perceived as an adult by younger generations. From the surprise of being called “ma’am” to the struggles with physical changes and lifestyle shifts, the author embraces the journey of growing older while maintaining a light-hearted perspective.