I type in 12-point font and it seems impossibly small. In the last few days I’ve started to wonder, was it always that small? When did I start blowing up the documents I read to 125% or upping the font size to 14 points?
This isn’t the only thing that I marvel at these days. I look in the mirror sometimes, expecting to see myself as my mental image, only to notice that the bags a little bigger under my eyes. The streaks at my temples, which I like, are not highlights but actual full length gray hair. It used to be that I could indulge in treats or wine and bounce back relatively quickly but now it seems as though a cupcake immediately puffs my belly out and one glass of wine has me up from 2 – 4 am.
I am getting older. At 44 I can no longer deny that fact. I’ve never been bashful about my age, or reluctant to say it, but at least three times in the past six months I’ve fudged and said 43.
Honestly, I am okay with many of the changes. I feel that some of the visible markers are a badge, showing a life well lived and a woman in motion.
But there is the undeniable fact that I still feel young. I watch my nieces, or the young people I see and I feel like I am their age. It is the most bizarre thing, the reverse of an out of body experience. I am very much in my body and my brain thinks I am 35. But when I look out I see that things are changing.
I go boldly into the future and will continue to monitor the progress of time as it marks my body and my endurance. It will also mark my tolerance and my priorities, making me less willing to put up with shit and more resolute about spending time with those I care about most.