Let me be clear: I have no desire to relive my twenties. Not if it means going back to that phase filled with insecurity, unpaid bills, a series of unsatisfactory relationships, relentless hangovers, and the gnawing fear that I’d never find the right partner, become a successful writer, or be able to pay my rent on time.
These days, however, I find myself feeling a bit nostalgic. My life has turned out quite well—better than I could have imagined, in fact. Still, I sometimes wonder if my best days are behind me. After all, I had a blast back then, didn’t I?
Now, everything seems settled. I have a respectable resume, a wonderful partner, two amazing kids, a lovely home with a gleaming kitchen, and a quirky dog. Yet, there are certain things weighing on my mind:
- The thought of my upcoming high school reunion makes my stomach churn. Thirty years? How did that happen? It’s not just the parade of awkward faces from my past that troubles me; it’s the realization that bands I once adored are now deemed “retro.” The fashion of my youth has made more than one comeback, and I can’t shake the fear of reliving my bad hair days. Thank goodness I graduated in 1985, long before everything was documented online.
- I finally signed up for Twitter after my editor insisted I do so. Why does everyone feel the need to cultivate an audience these days? Chasing followers—many of whom are complete strangers—seems absurd. At least Facebook is a network of “friends,” however loosely that term may apply. Twitter feels like a desperate quest for validation or, even worse, notoriety. It makes me feel old. #IHateTwitter
- I can’t help but feel envious watching Girls. Am I the only woman in her forties who feels a mix of disgust and jealousy while tuning in? Sure, the characters are annoying, but their carefree lives and wild mistakes take me back to my own youth in the city. (Of course, I never had the amazing hair that Jessa boasts—I was always stuck with a bad perm.)
- I find myself secretly indulging in John Green novels. It’s a bit concerning when your precocious 11-year-old daughter, who devours books far above her age level, is fighting you over the same worn copy of The Fault in Our Stars—and you’re the one left sobbing at its emotional conclusion. Her response? “It’s not that sad, Mom.” In other words: Grow up already!
- I stash Bazooka gum and Blow Pops in the back of my kitchen cupboards. I joke with my husband—an avid Sopranos fan who watches reruns endlessly—that I’m pulling a “Ginny Sack,” hiding candy like a guilty pleasure. Even though I’m fit and mostly healthy, I indulge in these treats just like I did at 7, 17, and yes, even at 27. I can’t quit you, candy! Being an adult doesn’t mean giving up sweets.
- I regret not realizing my own potential when I was 25, 28, or even 30. Now I understand how much power I had as a younger woman. The media industry is largely dominated by the youth, and those who manage to stay relevant into middle age often feel threatened by the fresh-faced newcomers. Why did I ever waste time feeling insecure? Why was I so overly polite?
- I’ve recently started snoring like a freight train. My grandmother used to produce sounds akin to a passing locomotive in her sleep. My mother continues to wake up houseguests with her thunderous snoring. I thought my commitment to fitness would spare me from this fate, but last night my husband woke me up three times for being such a noisy sleeper. Well, that settles it—my youth is officially over.
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In summary, while my life has evolved into a stable and satisfying existence, the shifts and realizations surrounding adulthood can be both daunting and enlightening. It’s a journey filled with nostalgia, vulnerability, and the occasional sweet indulgence.