What’s My Age Again?

I know that I’m aging. I can see it in my face, hear it in my voice… hell, I can feel it. As much as I’d like to maintain a dreamworld where I never ever turn 30, it’s not possible. At least I don’t think it is. And if it is and no one has told me then I’m going to be all kinds of pissed off.

There’s a point to this, and it’s that I’m terrified. I catch myself in moments that feel like a combination of deja vu and time travel, with a pinch of nostalgia thrown in. They happen a lot when I’m listening to music – I suppose because my taste hasn’t changed since my early 20s and pop-punk is really spectacular at making you feel youthful. But seriously, throw a pop-punk soundtrack behind my purple hair and absolute boy crazy tendencies and how could you not assume I’m 22? And then I remember that I’m not. And I panic.

I think the previously mentioned boy-craziness has a lot to do with my age related terror. The older I get, the more confused I am by dating. The more I miss how easy it was to meet someone – before Instagram, before Tinder, before I had to compete with every other female in the most terrifyingly large radius a.k.a the whole damn world. Back when I had a social life, never slept yet was always wide awake, and knew how to date without drama and anger and resentment and distrust and the fucking internet. I may be getting better looking with age (self high five!), but I’m not getting better at anything else. I miss actual dating and romance, and I’m not talking a dozen roses and formal dinner dates with candles or whatever. I’m talking meeting a dude at a show who bought you a beer, screamed his name over the music, gave you butterflies for days, and asked you for your phone number instead of trying to find you on Facebook the next day like a creepy third cousin twice removed. Remember when the Craigslist missed connections were the most addictive thing to lurk? WELL I DO. And that was a hell of a lot cuter than a freaking Instagram DM. DM isn’t even a word, people. I mean, c’mon. It’s an acronym. It doesn’t get any more lazy than that.

I’ve somehow turned into one of those people who say “damn these kids today” while still feeling like I’m their age. I know. I’m as confused as you are. Every night I go to sleep as a worn out mother of two, and every morning I wake up feeling like I’m in a Delorean and it must be 2009 again. Shit’s confusing, guys.

Every month that passes, hell – every week, I can feel 30 coming. And I want to be one of those nonchalant people who say age is just a number and I want to take on the future with a smile and I want to talk about how I laugh at my young self because I’m so much happier now and life has taught me so much and I’m in such a better place now and I was just a silly girl back then…

…but I’m still just a silly girl and I have no interest in outgrowing her, because she’s fucking awesome.


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