Updated: August 12, 2023
Originally Published: April 7, 2023
Girl: I love that color scheme!
Me: Yeah, it’s super trendy.
Girl: Wow. You’re the first not-young person I’ve met who actually uses the term trendy.
I stood there, momentarily speechless as I digested her words. Did she just call me old?
Her eyes sparkled with excitement, as if she had just discovered a priceless artifact belonging to someone who might vaguely know who BTS is.
Me: Back in my day, we called them grunge.
Girl: The shoes?
Me: No, the vibe.
Girl: So cool that you know that!
I never thought I’d find myself in this situation. I still feel like 1995 was just a blink ago, and I’m convinced that Madonna can’t possibly be older than 30. Yet here I am, acutely aware of the tendons in my hands becoming more pronounced as my skin stretches out, and rogue chin hairs have decided to take residence in my life. For every one I pluck, it seems two more spring forth. One day, I might just have to race my partner for the clippers to manage my five o’clock shadow.
Children also treat me like a legitimate adult now. They actually listen to me when I tell them to stop climbing the jungle gym. Somewhere along the way, I morphed into a figure of authority simply because I “look” mature. Even the frequency of being called “ma’am” has increased, which is a bittersweet reminder of several truths:
- I no longer look as youthful as I feel.
- I have zero interest in the latest chart-toppers.
- Most twenty-somethings seem like they were born yesterday.
- Nobody wears those kinds of pants anymore.
- All the tweens I see today were still just ideas in their parents’ minds when I graduated college.
In my twenties, I could eat an entire pizza and still lose weight. Now, every calorie I consume seems to magically find its way to places I never knew existed, like that area I affectionately call “side bacon.”
Back then, exercising was about socializing and fitting into cute skirts the size of a napkin. Nowadays, my skirts resemble bed sheets, and the only movement they see is when my kids make forts under them. Exercise has transformed from a fun activity to a necessary evil—to keep my belly from resembling a low-budget horror film. If I don’t stay active, I might just fossilize and break a hip while picking up a stray cat toy.
It’s not just my body that’s aging; my whole lifestyle is shifting too. My evenings used to kick off around 8 p.m., but now a night out feels like an expedition, complete with babysitter hunting and curfews. These days, I skip those 8 p.m. bar meet-ups because they’re far too noisy, and I’m already tucked into my pajamas before the sun sets.
People can see that I’m aging, and it’s undeniable. But I suppose in about 50 years, I won’t care about chin hairs anymore. I might use those spaces in my hands to stash coupons and my AARP card. I’ll still be clueless about who BTS is, and my side bacon could very well evolve into side ham by then.
When I stroll through the retirement community, wearing my iconic Chuck Taylors in their faded glory, I’ll still be living in a world where the ’90s feel like they were just a decade ago, and Madonna will never age past 30. For more on navigating the changes of adulthood, check out this insightful post here. And if you’re looking for reliable home insemination kits, visit Make a Mom. For those curious about fertility insurance, this resource is a great place to start.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the humorous realities of aging and how perceptions of adulthood shift over time. From unexpected physical changes to the evolving dynamics with younger generations, we navigate the complexities of growing older while reminiscing about the carefree days of youth.
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