Dammit, What's My Age Again?

Driving into work a few weeks ago, I was listening to the radio and Blink 182's  "Dammit (Growing Up)" came on.  A smile spread across my face as I reached over to blast the song as loud as my Honda Odyssey's stereo would allow.  The levels of irony are not lost on me here people. I hadn't heard this song in years, but the memories attached to that particular song left me feeling happy and light as I headed in to teach a 125 seventh and eighth graders. In the Spring of 1998, my three girlfriends and I went to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear, Blink 182, Smash Mouth, and some other bands.  While the show was great, what most sticks in my mind was our unplanned "detour."  We decided to take public transportation and thought we had read the subway map correctly.  As we confidently walked down the street bantering with one another, a cute college boy called out, "What are four white girls doing walking down this street?"  

We turned and giggled, "Dude, we're heading to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear. You want to come with us?"  

"Are you sure about that?" 

We stopped in our tracks and looked at one another. Fortunately, this kind stranger stopped us from continuing down the street.  Apparently, we were heading into a part of town four naive white girls should avoid even on a beautiful May afternoon. Since it was before the days of cell phones, he ran inside to call his buddy from his home phone, who was heading to the same show. No, I do not believe it was a rotary phone. We arrived at the show unscathed forty-five minutes later and giggled about our near adventure on the "wrong side of town" for months afterwards.

I remember growing up listening to the radio while riding in the car with my Mom and her smiling, "This song reminds me of a dance when" or "this song reminds me of when your brother was a baby," and she would trail off describing some fond memory from her past. When I was kid, I was mystified by how music could stir from the depths of her mind memories, but now at the age of thirty-six, I totally get it. In his song "Springsteen," Eric Church sings, "funny how a melody sounds like a memory." I feel a day seldom passes a melody doesn't stir up mostly fond, sometimes bittersweet, and occasionally sad memories which reminds me I've got a few years on me.

Even though I'm getting older, I don't feel old. One morning I was hanging out with a dear friend of mine who commented on how different she feels now that she's thirty-six. She noted she feels her age. I nodded acknowledging her perspective, but in all honesty, I either don't feel my age or thirty-six feels pretty awesome. 

I acknowledge I'm getting older. In the drawer of my nightstand, I have dark spot corrector, anti-wrinkle eye cream, and anti-wrinkle moisturizer which I slather on my face nightly crossing my fingers hoping they will stymie the aging process. I notice a few gray strands intermixed with my highlights. When I sit at the Phillies' game with my husband, I turn to him in disbelief, "Really... I'm older than that guy?" Probably with the exception of Bobby Abreu, I'm older than almost every single player on the team, and everyone in Philadelphia gripes, "Those guys stink because they're all so freakin' old!" I've noticed my celebrity crushes from fifteen years ago are looking a little oldish, and my current celebrity crush, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is nearly four years my junior. I don't feel too creepy; we at least could have attended high school together. I look at Julia Roberts who I felt was the epitome of beauty when I was a teenager, and she still looks great but her looks great is now qualified by the phrase "for her age." She's got a solid ten years on me, but really if I looked half as good as her in ten years, I'd count myself lucky and so would my husband.

I love when People Magazine comes out with their "Most Beautiful People" issue. I invariably turn to the page titled "Beauty at Every Age" where the editors display pictures of starlets starting at the age of twenty and work their way through the decades. I gaze at the "beautiful" women at every age and of course pay special attention to the women who are my age. This year, I noted I am the same age as Kerry Washington, who is stunning. Sure there are plenty of beautiful women who are younger than her, but Kerry Washington exudes a confidence that most twenty-somethings don't.  In my twenties, often when I wore high heels in my classroom in hopes of seeming slightly more imposing than my five foot three and a half, I always felt like I was playing "dress-up" in my Mom's closet. Now when I wear heels, I feel like a grown woman. I look at pictures of myself from my twenties, and of course see the passage of time. I wish I could travel back and slap myself up the side of the head for ever worrying about if my stomach was flat enough, or can I really pull off wearing a bikini? Why couldn't I see then what I see now in those pictures? When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I'm certainly not as youthful as I once was, but I'm smarter and more self-assured which I realize is more important.

Most days, I think I feel around twenty-five; although, I can easily slip into feeling and acting like a twelve year old. It's one of the job hazards that comes with teaching middle schoolers who find humor in the silliest and stupidest things, and I love it. 

I firmly believe age is only a number, and a person is only as old as they feel. I recognize these are cliches, but cliches are cliches because they bear some truth.

Between Christmas and New Year's, we traditionally host a party with some wonderful friends. One of my former students and his wife come along with his parents. We befriended my former student's parents while he was still in high school, and our friendship with his parents continued after he graduated. They came to our wedding; we went to their son's wedding, and now we all see each other; although, not often enough from my perspective. The four of them are usually the last to leave our party and thinking of the ridiculous conversations and antics that transpire makes me smile as I write this.  My husband and I fall somewhere in between their ages, but since we share similar life views, values, and humor, the age difference fades into the background, and we purely just enjoy each other's company.

Probably Blink 182's most famous song is "What's My Age Again?"--a song that by the way evokes the memory of the first boy I ever fell in love with, which has become less bitter and more sweet with the passage of time-- and my response to that question changes on a daily basis, dependent on my mood and my circumstances. My goal though is to never feel my age. To always feel younger than the number which quantifies my years on this planet. I may have had to grow up, but dammit, I'm not going to be old.