Girl: I love this color palette.
Me: Yeah, it’s pretty trendy.
Girl: Wow. You’re the first older person I’ve met who actually used the word trendy.
I paused, trying to wrap my head around her observation. Did she just imply that I’m old?
Her eyes sparkled with excitement, as if she had discovered a rare gem that might know a little about the latest pop culture.
Me: Well, back in my day, we called them skaters.
Girl: The shoes?
Me: The hipsters.
Girl: That’s so cool you know that!
I never anticipated this moment in my life. I still live in a mental space where I think the 1990s were just a decade ago and that Madonna is still in her thirties. Yet, here I am, noticing my skin losing its youthful elasticity, with tendons becoming more visible and rogue chin hairs making their unwelcome appearance. For every one I pluck, it seems two more spring up, and soon enough, I’ll be racing my partner to the clippers to maintain some semblance of grooming.
Children now regard me as a legitimate authority figure. They actually heed my words at the playground when I tell them to stop doing something. Somewhere along the line, I’ve crossed into that realm where children listen simply because I look old enough. The frequency of being addressed as “ma’am” is also on the rise in my daily interactions.
Hearing “ma’am” is a sign that I’ve reached an unfortunate milestone:
- I no longer appear as youthful as I feel.
- I’m out of touch with mainstream music.
- Most twenty-somethings look like they’ve just stepped out of a time capsule.
- No one wears those pants anymore.
- Every tween I see today was still a mere thought when I graduated college.
In my twenties, I could indulge in an entire pizza and still lose weight. Now, at thirty, my body seems to store calories in mysterious places, like that area between my armpit and my breast that I’ve come to call “side bacon.”
Back then, exercise was a social activity and a means to fit into cute skirts that fluttered as I walked. Nowadays, my skirts resemble bed sheets, and they only flutter when my kids use them as a fort. Exercise has transformed into a necessity, not just to prevent my belly from expanding like a horror movie monster, but because I’m aging. If I don’t stay active, I might as well start planning for my fossilization, which could lead to a broken hip while reaching for a stray piece of cat food.
It’s not just about my physical changes; my entire lifestyle screams “grown-up.”
My evenings used to kick off at 8 p.m., but now going out requires significant planning—from finding a babysitter to ensuring I’m home at a reasonable hour. When given the option to hit the town, I often decline those 8 p.m. bar meet-ups because they’re too loud, and, let’s face it, I’m already in my pajamas.
I’m getting older, and it’s clear that people can see it. However, in fifty years, I won’t be bothered by chin hairs or my aging skin. I might even find a practical use for the spaces under my tendons, like storing coupons or my AARP card. I still won’t know who One Direction is, and my side bacon might have evolved into side ham by then.
As I stroll through my retirement community—decked out in my faded Chuck Taylors—I’ll still be in a world where 1990 feels like just yesterday, and Madonna remains eternally youthful in my mind.
For more insights on fertility and parenting, check out this article. If you’re looking for fun activities to keep the kids engaged, this resource is excellent. And for those exploring options in home insemination, this link is a great resource.
Summary
A humorous reflection on the realities of aging and the unexpected ways in which youth perceive adulthood. The author navigates her feelings about growing older, the changes in her body, and how children view her as an authority figure. Through light-hearted anecdotes, she explores the shifts in lifestyle, music, and social interactions that accompany adulthood.