on getting older

It’s not my favorite thing, the turning over of a year and looking in the mirror to notice a wrinkle that certainly wasn’t there a year ago. I can handle the fine lines, the graying hair. It all really doesn’t bother me. What I can’t handle is the time passing. It bothers me that I feel emotionally like I turned 21 today rather than one year below the dreaded 30. I wish our emotional and chorological ages could catch up to each other and join hands. Then we’d see each other for who we really are, be able to treat those fragile ones, the ones who haven’t escaped childhood, with kid gloves. And then some of us would hover around 25 in that “what am I suppose to do with my life?” quandary and our faces, wrinkle free and fresh, would always have that confused yet happy glow. But, if it’s time passing that bothers me then I guess the whole notion of my own birthday bothers me because it is nothing but about time passing and wrinkles and gray hair and finding your way and giving love and being loved. My 29th was splendid enough filled with Kindergarteners singing to me with happy, wide eyes and 1st graders giving me a giant card and emails from close and distant friends and a friend with an unexpected present and dinner out on a whim. I’m not a birthday doer. I don’t make a fuss, I’m uncomfortable with the receiving of things, but somewhere deep inside me I wish I could invite all my friends over and have a moon bounce in the backyard and Barbie doll birthday cake.