I celebrated a birthday last week. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by my children, my husband and parents. I don’t tend to be a huge celebrator, so festivities were low-key—but I did have my favorite Carvel ice cream cake. The same cake I’ve been enjoying on every birthday since my early 80s roller skating parties.
As I sat there, at 41, devouring an eight year old’s birthday cake, I found myself wondering—when am I going to feel old? Or, at least, older?
I mean, I still sit criss-cross-applesauce and call my mother every day. I have the sweet tooth of a child. And my version of dress-up isn’t too dissimilar from my daughter’s.
At the same time, I realize—I’m far too old to be foolish anymore. Yet, I think I’m far too young to not care. I haven’t earned the kind of blissful indifference of, say, my grandma at 85 years-old. She had a matter-of-factness that I think comes from a lifetime of learning who you are.
What IS this sober, alert age I’m at?
And then it hit me: I think what I actually feel is relief. I’ve lost the angst of youth. My confidence is at a high point. I don’t question my decision making—whether it’s my lunch, my jeans or my parenting. I admire, rather than envy, the beauty of younger women. There’s no room in my heart or mind for the kind of jealousy or self loathing I felt even a decade ago.
With the clutter cleared away, it feels like I can finally begin to really be me. And maybe that’s why I actually feel energized and not “old.” It’s like I’m 25 with a track of time. Because I know how fast it goes. How life seems to go by overnight sometimes. One birthday you’re disco skating to MacArther Park and eating Carvel cake with 20 kids—and the next, you’re blowing out a match because no one can find a candle while your two year-old sings “EE-I-EE-I-O” instead of Happy Birthday.
But I’ll take it.
You know, it was right around my last birthday that I launched BeautyMama. It’s been an unforgettable year. Thanks for being here and helping us both grow.
XO