Iterations of inconsequential thought

Hooray for the unrelenting march of years

July 26, 2010 at 9:03 pm (Adulthood)

I keep forgetting how old I am. I’ve been referring to myself as 32 for a while now (as it gets closer to my birthday, I feel like it’s easier to say the new age rather than say that “I’m almost x”). Because of this, though, I’ve caught myself thinking that I’m turning 33 instead. I think I feel more like I’m about to be 33…or maybe it’s just that I like that number better.

Э thinks I do myself a disservice when I forget and artificially age myself. He gets caught up in anxieties about aging* (mostly because of a fear of death but also because of his very youth-focused profession). I, however, like aging. I mean, yeah, the incremental gaining of weight and the ever-diminishing quantity of baby-making years are not things that make me do cartwheels (not that I can cartwheel anyway). But, besides the obvious and very helpful “it’s better than being dead!”, I like aging because I feel like I become more myself with every year.

 I’ve always admired my Vati because he has always (from birth, seriously) been comfortable with himself. He’s a great storyteller, and his anecdotes bespeak a man who has always been who he is, and always been happy with that person. Kowtowing to peer pressure, disparaging others to get ahead, these are normal (if unsavory) social behaviors that are lost on him. He never saw the point, in middle school, of ragging on one’s parents. He asked the Mutlet out on a first date over the phone, apparently unconcerned that she might not exactly remember who he was. In med school, he confronted a powerful professor for making fun of a fellow student’s stutter. He has always been sure of himself and in abiding by his own compass and character.

Alas, this sureness of character (along with perfect eyesight) is an asset that didn’t get passed down the blood line  to me. Oh, believe me, like my father I’m something of a lovable (yes?) odd duck, but unlike him I’ve been an odd duck who cares what others think of her. This rather awkward combination has, from time to time, made life pretty uncomfortable between kindergarten, and, oh, say…age 31. Still, I get better in dealing with it, in being comfortable with being myself, year after year. I get better at holding myself above the fray of my own thoughts, get better at not comparing myself to others, get better at embracing my introverted, agoraphopic self. Get better at being more like my dad.

So bring it on, 32. Bring on the unrelenting march of years: the additional wrinkles, the aches and pains of my aging body, the diminishing baby-making era – it’s ok that I may now only have time to pop out maximum, oh, eight babies before menopause presumably sets in (don’t worry, I’ll probably stop at 2. or 3. or 4). In exchange I get to be more comfortable in my own skin; I get to embrace that part of me that’s ever more similar to a man I admire an awful lot. That’s worth more to me than a whole vat babies.