Last week, while putting on the most minimal make-up I deem I can get by with, and feeling inner pride that I successfully wore the exact same outfit four days in a row without anyone knowing (working from home FTW), I was thinking about how… ahem… not old I am.
I am frequently reminded of my age when I say things like, “but then I would look like a mom,” and the response I get is, “you are a mom.”
But obviously I don’t mean a literal mom. I mean, you know, moms that are my mom’s age. There’s no way I’m that old. Or even the age of mom that goes to parent teacher conferences, or is sometimes older than school teachers. Because clearly those teachers are only younger because they’re some sort of prodigy that graduated from college early. Like Doogie Howser.
On Friday at school Milo made a time capsule. As part of the assignment he had to pick a year when he’d open it. I asked him what he chose and he said 2022, “Because that’s when I’ll be exactly 18 and exactly a grown up.”
When I was 18 people in their 30s were SO OLD. And now I find myself describing someone to Tyler and he’ll say, “Are they old?” And I’ll respond, “Not really, maybe 40s.”
Where 40 used to be old, I now think of 40s as people who just happen to have a little more work experience than I do, or are smarter about saying no to a 3:00am night out. (Because remember when you were like 25 and you thought you’d never say no to that?)
And then the funniest thing–I realized was how much being older has made me better at taking advice from people who are mom-old. Like the younger and stupider I was about life, the more naive I was about my stupidity. There’s gotta be some wise quote about that. Maybe from some older person. Since I’m getting older, maybe I’ll try my hand at it…
Or maybe I’ll just leave it up to someone else older than me.