27 years old for two more months.
When someone turns 28, that means they are only 2 years away from being 30. Two more years of enjoying the latter side of those romantic "20s," before it's old news and that person begins to identify with this description as well.
In two months, "that person" will be me. And if you'll allow me a moment of being a grammar nazi, the demonstrative adjective "that" in modifying "person" is quickly sliding towards "this" every second that goes by. "That distant person" will no longer be far away and will instead become the very terrifying "this person," as in, "me right now." NOW. Almost, in two months.
Can you tell I'm clinging to the last vestiges of the time frame I have before the inevitable hits? The only comfort is knowing that at least when 28 happens, I will still have 2 more years to cling to more vestiges, like debris after a shipwreck.
So what am I so afraid of? Is aging really that bad?
I think so.
And I also think anyone who says otherwise, particularly if a woman, is a sad liar. Let's face it, we as women all fear those telltale signs--the minute beginnings of what will become visible wrinkles around the eyes (yes, I have these featherlike stokes even now, I've seen them in my neon-lit magnifying mirror), those course gray/white hairs corkscrewing out of the scalp (reaching for the tweezers...), the lack of one's body to "bounce back" after late nights and busy weeks (where's the couch? and 20 uninterrupted hours to recover?), and of course, that inability to "eat whatever I want!" You know what I mean. I know you do.
Though my process is just beginning, I do not pretend to be immune. In fact, as I see the light touches, I realize all the more that "I too am mortal." My loving fiance simply shakes his head at my "exaggerating" and assures me I'm am just as smooth and soft as a baby...but wait, is that a good thing? Where exactly? ...he sighs again.
Yet, how much does this terror actually affect my daily life? Well, let me tell you.
I faithfully dab on anti-wrinkle cream to my eyes morning and night. I drink water as much as I can remember to cleanse my body, my skin, my conscience, and my soul. I know sleep is important so I get angry when I "have" to stay up late. I run at least 4 times a week to stave off the haunting thought that I've not done my due diligence. I stay tuned in to the latest trends in beauty products and styles to flatter myself. And...isn't this pathetic?
I think hearing myself sound so proud of my efforts is almost as painful as the very thought of aging itself. Why the worry, why the time spent fretting, why the bombardment of questions to a poor supportive man who honestly finds me sexy beyond perfection?
There now, that feels better. Because it is. Knowing my capacity for obsession, at the end of the day, taking a chill pill and a dose of optimism is, after all, the best remedy for aging.
To tell you the truth, I actually think my wisps of white, streaking through my dark hair on the right side is kind of cool--does it symbolize my wisdom or bad-ass self? I say both.
