Today is my 36th birthday, which means that I'm officially closer to forty now than thirty. I swear I woke up with a new wrinkle, but I also woke up with a pimple which is clearly my body's way of reminding me that I'm still practically a teenager! Right? ... Right?
I can't complain about getting older, though - because as they say, "it's a privilege denied to many" and I absolutely refuse to take that for granted. Would I like to look twenty again? HELL YES. I miss my taut, unlined skin and my firm, un-stretchmarked body and my pre-baby boobs and ... what was I saying? Oh yes. Even though I'd like to look twenty, I would never want to be that age again. Because while I may not have the physical assets I had at that age (emphasis on "ass"ets), I have traded them for something much more important, much more personally valuable: a knowledge of who I am.
We are like puzzles, and we're given a piece or two each year, each one further completing the big picture. Aging is looking at a photograph of yourself that comes into sharper focus as time goes on, so that you notice more and more details. When I was twenty, I didn't realize that I still had so much changing to do. The gift of getting older is being able to see those changes and acknowledge that they're still happening, and to embrace them, knowing that I'm turning out okay.
The self-assurance that comes with age is better than smooth skin or lustrous hair. (Because when you're young enough to have those things in spades, you don't appreciate them anyway.)
I'm gonna rock 36. Aging like a fine wine over here.