As I was being rolled into the OR for a minor medical procedure, the doctor greeted me with a cheerful, "Hey now, you're too young to be in here!" Which is definitely on my list of the top ten things I don't want to hear while being rolled into an OR, just after "Oh my, that scalpel's a little rusty, huh?"
He probably said that because I was coming in for an endoscopy after having a years-long case of heartburn, something he likely treats more in chubby middle-aged or older men than 20-something, healthy-weight women. Turns out I have a hiatal hernia, so that's one more mild disease I'm collecting slightly ahead of schedule.
I'm 27. I recognize that I have no right to talk about aging, and yet here I am ready to do so, and here are a few reasons why:
- Every year on my birthday, I look up the age I'm turning, just for giggles. For every age, there are listicles about why each age is awesome, and blog entries about what makes year ____ so great. At 26, those articles leveled off, and I came across quite a few titled along the lines of "Life Lessons I Learned by Age 26" (I guess 25 was rough for more people than just me). Last year, I looked up "age 27" and the first thing I found was a gaggle of neuroscientists claiming that to be the age at which "brain decline" begins. Immediately after, at least a dozen sites about the 27 Club.
- Last summer, my father-in-law noted the swirl of gray hairs on the back of my head. I played up being offended as a joke, but I think about it every time I get a haircut and find ever larger numbers of gray hairs in the fallen trimmings. (An update since I started this blog entry: The other day, as Kelsey and I were driving to dinner, she looked over at me and helpfully commented on how the grays were particularly prominent in the slanted evening sunlight.)
- One glass of wine is now sufficient to leave me dry-mouthed and achy the next morning.
- If I don't wear concealer under my eyes, my coworkers ask if I'm tired, or whether I'm feeling alright.
- I get excited about making pot roast.
- I play sudoku while I poop.
- I officially feel out of place in the Juniors section of Kohl's.
- I relate more to the parent characters than the teenage characters in shows and movies, despite my "babies" having four legs and a (marginally higher) propensity to crap on the carpet while company is over.
- I had to call AT&T support last month because I couldn't figure out a problem I was having with texting. What's worse is that I couldn't even describe the problem I was having, and I could hear the woman on the other end gradually dumbing down her explanations to a bar just slightly above "elderly woman with early signs of dementia and no email accounts."
- The sign on the self-service cashier machines at Kroger say to have your ID ready if you're buying booze and "look younger than 27."
- I've reached a 50/50 probability of being carded for alcohol. Which isn't such a big deal, except Kelsey is almost always carded. Granted, she could claim to be a high schooler and get away with it.
- Meaning, I could not claim to be a high schooler and get away with it. Between the black goat beard on my chin that I shave at least once a day and my spoiled milk complexion (with Grinch green undertones and Simpsons yellow highlights), I'd blend into a high school hallway about as seamlessly as Steve Buscemi.
Now, I don't know if you picked up on this subtle characteristic of mine, but I get real existential real quick. I don't mind being psyched about going to bed early, and I'm actually getting into the idea of being a premature silver fox, like my grandmother was. What makes me nervous is the possibility that I've very suddenly entered the "all downhill from here" section of my life.
Like, did I mention that neuroscientists think mental decline starts at 27? Oh no, I did, didn't I? IT'S HAPPENING.
What if my healthiest days are behind me? What if I start collecting illnesses with the same reckless abandon with which I collected Pokemon cards not so long ago? What if I have to start asking younger people how to use the Facebook? What if I don't get sexy silver hair, and wind up with the yellowed smoker's 'fro of an old biddy who plays the same slot machine for 10 hours a day?
On the other hand, what if finally looking my age (or even a little older) makes me a more confident businesswoman? What if I'm chugging closer to the life stage in which I've learned many of my biggest, most painful lessons, and am able to be a better, more considerate person because of it? What if I'm developing into the sort of person who could be a mother to more than just a couple of weird Chihuahua-monsters?
For a long time, I've been afraid of getting older, but now, Peter Pan is turning gray, and I'm not even that worried about it. The world gets bigger and bigger, and I learn more and more. I'm excited to live each stage of my life, rising to new challenges and reaping new rewards.
And for those of you rightfully rolling your eyes at the under-30 rugrat fretting about aging, what advice can you share with me as I squint at this screen and wonder if I'm ready for reading glasses?
