I must be getting old

I don’t know at what point we decide we are old. Maybe it happens slowly. Perhaps some experience it all at once. There are different times and points in life where we think, “I’m getting old.” Let me describe my little-by-little moments of aging.

When I was in college, I stayed up all night. I didn’t live with my parents, so there wasn’t a curfew. I’d have a test to study for, a date to the midnight movie, a dance that went into the wee hours. It was no big deal. No sleep and me being pretty worked out just fine. Then I had a kid. Staying up all night was no longer fun. If I couldn’t be asleep by 10 p.m., I was miserable. As I told my husband that I was so tired and he concurred, we realized, we must be getting old.

Recently, I moved into a new house. In my old neighborhood, I was the “old one.” At twenty-eight, I was old. The other girls in my old neighborhood were newly-weds who had the fresh dewy look of youth. The stars in their eyes, the rosy view of the future. Next to them, I was old. I was a newly-wed nine years ago. The “dew” I have is running down my chin when I realize I’ve been sleeping on the couch—holding still for too long does that to me. My rosy view is now a whisper pink. These girls—we’ll refer to them as the young ones--came to me for advice. The young ones were in shock that they were contemporaries with a mother of four. The young ones would ask me to text them some information and I stammered, “I don’t even have texting on my phone.” I felt like I must be getting old.

At lunch the other day with my friend, we realized we are getting old. We looked around the restaurant which we happened to be sharing with those from the nearby high school. Our conversation went from who has the best deal on deli products (another tell-tale sign of aging) to, “What are these people wearing? I thought leggings, skinny jeans and big bangs went out in the ‘80’s and I really didn’t miss them going!” I must be getting old when I’m bagging on the next younger generation’s clothing choices.

This is the now, and I have yet to look forward to the extra time it takes to get those last few inches off my waistline. And having only divorced guys check me out when I’m in the community because I better fit into their demographic. And the achy knees after a day of gardening. And the clumsiness of falling over the vacuum cord and spraining my shoulder. And having my kids say to me, “Mom, you mean you only paid $3.69 a gallon for gas?!?” Oh, the future.

So, I know that I can’t stop time. I wouldn’t want to. There are things that are to come in my life that will make the extra waistline inches, achy knees and insulting comments from my procreated matter worth it. For example, I hear that being a grandma rocks. I love the idea of knowing what a recipe/pattern/instruction pamphlet is saying when it says to “add cornstarch until desired texture is reached”/ “baste raw edges together along the bias”/ “use the hex key to drive in the final bolts.” I think that making dinner for a house full of people sounds fun because it must mean there’s a special occasion. Some day. For now, I’ll just take my knocks like the rest and be happy with the age I am.