I woke up this morning to the horrific realisation that in
less than a few months I’ll be leaving behind my teenage years, stripping away
any confidence I had in my lustrous youth and entering into my third decade.
I’ll be 20 years old. Practically ancient.
I found myself scrutinizing my face in the mirror, terrified
that somehow I’d aged overnight. Is that
another wrinkle under my eye? Am I getting…jowls? I’m totally getting jowls. If
I pull my face up this way… Oh my god is that a double chin?! Does my nose look
droopy to you? Its drooping isn't it?
It was as I was standing there, my face smooshed against the mirror,
age-defying moisturizer smeared across my cheeks as if I were about to do
battle with time itself, that I had this world-altering, life-changing, mind-boggling
thought…
Why does it matter if I’m old.
Old. It’s such a taboo word isn't it? To be called ‘old’ is
to be labelled undesirable and weak. Age has become a barrier, a constant
reminder that as our knees grow knobblier, our lives grow shorter. Age is an
enforcer of limitations. We are instilled with this idea that the older we get,
the less opportunity life holds for us, the less capable we are of filling our
days with excitement and newness.
Caught up in the stigma surrounding age, we constantly dwell
on the years we've left behind, rather than the years that lie ahead,
believing, wrongly, that our due date has come and gone.
There’s a reason we celebrate birthdays, a reason we may have
forgotten now that longevity of life has become the norm.
You've lived another year. You've created another chapter of
memories. You've survived.
Once upon a time, age was considered a virtue, rather than a
vice. To have lived to 30 and 50 was an achievement. The elderly were the most
valued members of society simply because they held all the knowledge and
experience of a lifetime in the lines of their faces.
Life is not a given, it’s a gift, and each year older should
be treated as such. Celebrated, rather than dreaded.
Maybe you can’t recover from a night of drinking like you
used to, or flirt your way out of a ticket or play that favourite sport. Maybe
you've got jowls, or you can’t see your belly button because your boobs retired
some time ago. The point is that you
lived to see it happen. You had those experiences. And when those doors close,
age then allows you to experience a side of yourself you may not have
considered before. You can’t play that sport? Then teach it! Don't allow yourself to dwell. Move on, make new memories, experience something different.
Contrary to stigma, age is just another open door, a constant
reminder that you are alive.
So why does it matter if I’m old?
It doesn't! And you know what? I am going to OWN 20. 20 is
going to be my year to shine. After that, I’ll go right ahead and make 21 my
bitch. At 30, I’ll celebrate just how far I've come. Bring on the wrinkles, the
stretch marks, the saggy ass and the age spots. Every mark and every wear and
tear on my body will be a reminder of the experiences I've had. And If I’m
lucky enough to live to be 80 or 100, I’ll be the happiest old biddy alive…
simply because I lived.
