Remember when you were young, and your birthday was the most exciting thing in the world? I was always confused by adults not wanting to celebrate their birthdays, or getting mad when I asked how old they were. (Probably because thirty-five was an unimaginably high number that I hadn't even leaned to count to in school yet. I'm sure my gasps and, "Whoa, you're old!"s were not appreciated.) Yeah. Those were the good old days. (No pun intended.)
I have at last reached the age of dreading my birthday. It looms in the distance like a storm on the horizon. I swear, I hear thunder in the distance. I hear ominous church bells tolling in my brain, growing louder and louder as each day passes, and I grow yet another day closer to death. Cake and ice cream? With my ever-slowing metabolism? Are you kidding me? Completely out of the question. (I'll take my calories in liquid form, thank you very much.)
Why is it so hard to get older? Is it the agony of watching my face and body change, ever so slowly, and painfully irreversibly, each day in the mirror? Isn't age just a number? Or is it really a numerical reminder that after three decades, I have no kids, no "career", and NO -count them, no- Academy Awards? Not even a Tony. It's funny how I never realized what a fountain of wasted potential I am until I turned 30. And here I am, three years later, desperately trying to recapture something that I feel I've lost.
I have officially entered the Mid-Life Crisis Zone.
A lot of people scoff at this and snap, "You're too young to have a mid-life crisis." I beg to differ. I feel the term "mid-life" isn't necessarily applicable to the actual age of the stricken, it's more a state of mind concurrent with the desire to be younger, no matter what the reason. Like when a new baby arrives in the household, and all of a sudden your 5-year-old wants to sleep in his crib and drink from a bottle again. Call it an "age crisis", if you prefer.
My age crisis started right around 30, and over the past few years has manifested itself in the form of no fewer than three tattoos, two piercings, two job changes, an eyebrow-raising hobby (pole dancing), a change of hair-color that has included both feathers and blue streaks, and an uncontrollable urge to wear fishnets and leopard-print apparel. I briefly toyed with the notion of getting a motorcycle, but my husband finally put his foot down and said I could have a motorcycle or a classic car, but not both. And someday, I'm GETTING that car. So the motorcycle is off the table at the moment. I've also taken a recent liking to antiques, something I've always admired, but never bought or collected. I can only assume that this (combined with too much History Channel) stems from a desire to feel younger by surrounding myself with things that are older than I am.
I think a large part of my crisis has to do with appearance, which may sound vain, but I think any and all females begin to experience this at some point. I have multiple friends who've already gone under the knife, needle, and suction-tube in an effort to slow the clock. You wake up one morning, and suddenly there's a stranger in the mirror. A banged-up version of your former self, with circles under her eyes, cellulite-y thighs hanging out of her shorts, weird little wrinkles you never noticed before, and an army of grey hairs that you'd swear weren't there yesterday. Suddenly spending a hundred bucks at the salon seems like a deal. Anything to hide the grey! Anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers are a must. Time travel in a jar, you say? Sign me up! Facial peels, Botox, eye-lifts...whatever it costs, I'll pay it! After all, can you really put a price on your face?! There's got to be a way, you tell yourself. I am Ponce de Leon. He died searching for the fountain of youth, and likely, so will I.
One day I was shopping, and as I passed rack after rack of skinny jeans and t-shirts that screamed, "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot", I realized that the age gap between me and the person who'd actually wear that stuff is probably over fifteen years. Shopping with my young cousin at Hot Topic, I realized that I was the oldest person in the store. Even the manager looked too young to vote. It was like a wrecking ball to the gut. I was originally thrilled when Forever 21 opened in the mall, and now even the name of the store sounds like a cruel irony. Am I too old to shop in juniors? Is the twenty-something on the other side of the rack looking at me sideways, thinking, what is SHE doing here? Am I officially relegated to the misses section, where instead of hoodies, the racks boast shapeless cardigans and shoulder-padded blazers? And they sell jeans with *gulp* elastic waistbands??? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FAIR!!! I WON'T DO IT.
I'm 33 years old. My bucket list is three pages long, and I WILL keep crossing things off. I vow to embrace what remains of my youth. I will hold fast to the notion that I'm only as old as I feel, and I WILL BUY whatever clothes I want. After all, now that I'm a grown-up, I can afford them. I'll get as many stupid tattoos and piercings as I want, and I'm not going to give a rat's ass how they'll look when I'm 80. I'm going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on anti-aging serums and cute underwear, because self-esteem is priceless. I'm going to get drunk at concerts and sing at the top of my lungs. I'm going to put up a pole in my living room, and hang upside down on it! I'm going to see the world. And I'm going to have the time of my life until they pry the '49 Chevy Fastback keys from my cold, dead hands.
And THAT, my friends, is my happy birthday to me! :)
