I’m Getting Older

I’m getting older. It didn’t happen all at once. In fact it took about twenty two years I’d say.

I started noticing it in bits and pieces.

Going to restaurants with my dad and realizing that fellow patrons may be interpreting our luncheon as a date.

Seeing a slew of high schoolers approaching on the sidewalk and crossing the road to avoid the ruckus.

Several of my friends are sleeping with 30 year olds.

Someone I went to high school with is having a baby.

Doing my taxes.

Considering the arch support in my shoes.

Twenty two was the age of the boy I lied to when I was seventeen, not that he knew that.

I’m not where I thought I’d be.

I don’t know how I envisioned this time. Perhaps I would be the one sleeping with a 30 year old. Perhaps crossing the street from high schoolers close in age to my step daughter whom I didn’t want to embarrass.

“I’ll never replace your mom Katie,” is what I’d tell her, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

Maybe I thought I’d be further ahead in my chosen career.

Would know how to drive.

Would have a stable apartment.

Would have found my “people” socially.

Would have clear skin.

Would have a boyfriend or at least a steady rotation of enviable lovers.

Probably thought I would’ve stopped wearing crop tops by now. What age exactly is it inappropriate to wear crop tops? I’ll ask Katie.

But no, a “career” still seems like a distant concept, like retirement funds and time shares, maybe one day but certainly not now.

The idea of driving in the city just seems impractical, but not having the option seems infantile.

The fact that I’m crashing in my best friend’s brother’s room, a time capsule of his adolescence with hockey posters and model ships, while I wait for the lease on an apartment I can’t afford to start, is borderline embarrassing.

Still going to the same parties with the same people, not sure if it’s because we actually like each other or simply a matter of convenience.

I’ve accepted my bacne as an adversary I will bring to the grave.

My love life isn’t ideal, I spend far too much time obsessing over crushes whereabouts based off their instagram activity––oh don’t feel superior, I know you do too!

And you know what, I will not stop showing skin til the day I die, no joke, bury me in a nice sheer number, tasteful nipple exposure is always a slam dunk.

Someone asked me the other day what my plans for the future were and I had to have them specify how far ahead they meant. My plans for the rest of the day? Surviving. My plans for the rest of the week. Getting through it. My plans for the rest of the month? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. So many of the goals I had for myself were supposed to have been reached by now. Now I’m scared to set any more because I simply cannot take letting myself down again, and certainly don’t need to let others in on the scoop that I, in fact, am not where I want to be.

So much has happened. So much bad with sweet moments strewn throughout. I don’t know that I can take another 22 years of this but also know they’ll probably go by in a flash.

My parents both got hottest in their thirties so I have that to look forward to.

Becoming the cool aunt to my friends babies.

I gave my number to a 40-year-old last week and it didn’t feel that inappropriate.

I went to a family dinner the other night and realized I have more in common with my aunts and uncles than my cousins.

High school was only four years ago and I already can’t believe I used to wear that.

The word “adult” doesn’t feel right as a self-describer.

I still like being the youngest one in the room.

Still like being called kiddo and baby.

Growing up I was always the precocious child who was beyond her years, the kind of kid who used words like precocious. Now I’m an “adult” with a stale word whose life, if anything, has fallen behind. Where I used to scorn the kids table, I now at times feel inadequate amongst my own peers.

Another year gone and what do I have to show for it?

I’m getting older. Wether I like it or not.

Internally I feel like I’m at a standstill and my only markers of time passing are what’s around me. That restaurant on the corner isn’t there any more. Service workers have started to call me ma’am. Under eye cream is in my not so distant future.

I turn twenty two at midnight. I’m horrified that my best years are behind me. Even more horrified that those years could be considered my best.