Age ain’t nothin’ but a number


I’m 33.  And I’m OK with that.

I have never understood why once women hit a certain age, they suddenly start acting weird.  Age becomes a taboo subject and they start trying desperately to color their gray hair, chop it off and crop it short, and suddenly they use a ton of anti-wrinkle cream and start lying or being coy or vague about their age.

To which I say WTF?  In most cultures, age is wisdom earned through experience, something to be respected.

In our society?  Our aging population regards themselves with the self-esteem of someone who thinks they practically ought to be taken out to some pasture and shot.

At the very least, they subtract a few years from their age.  It’s like cooking the books; they have a public age and then their real age, guarded as closely as a megacorporation’s trade secret.

I never understood this, or the hideous hair-chopping habit.  Seriously, chopping your hair easily adds 10 years, and if revealing your true age is something you’re trying desperately to avoid, then the effort seems very counter-productive.  There’s simply no logic in hacking your hair off and then lamenting about looking older.  It’s like stuffing your face full of candy for years and then complaining about getting fat.

So anyway, back to me.  Well, let’s face it: I’m the only woman I know actually walking the walk, ya know?  I’m 33 and I feel 16.  I keep my hair long.  I eat well.  I want to go outside and play (finding others to play with at this age is tough, though – everybody is busy with kids).

I imagine not having kids has something to do with remaining young at heart; if you’ve never had to set an example for someone else, well, you can stay young at heart.

It’s not that I’m not grown up; I exercise a decent level of maturity and cerebral cortical development – taking turns, considering others, good sportsmanship, decent spelling and grammar, and basic functionality within society.  I pick up on non-verbal cues and I understand societal norms.  My manners are up to par.  I also hold degrees and my own business, having been self-employed for the past several years already.

It’s just that I don’t equate maturity and graceful aging with automatically getting old and succumbing to the societal customs that accelerate this process just because that’s what everyone else is doing.  I won’t stop playing Nintendo just because no one else my age does, and if I have to wait until all my friends’ kids are of appropriate age to play Capture the Flag in the dark, then I will.  I like to stay up all night and burp really loud sometimes.  It doesn’t mean I can’t deliver top-notch care for my patients during the day; it just means that sometimes I’m still a kid inside outside of the office and I’m cool with that.

I refused to let my life and youth fade and disappear just because I turned 30.  So many women do that and I call bullshit.  I turned 30 by walking through a Labor Day-crowded mall, belting out songs from Disney’s “Aladdin” and “Dumbo” while sipping on a euphoric chocolate shake.  I made it a point to make my 30s a rockin’ decade to remember–something fun: being an adult is optional.

And my efforts have paid off.  My 30s have indeed been awesome.  Because I said so.  I told myself I would never be elusive about my age, nor would I succumb to societal pressures surrounding my age group.

And so far, my aging process has been graceful and drama-free.

So there you have it: one path to the fountain of youth.

“Arabian Nights….” *Belch*

It’s that easy.


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