A few days ago someone asked me how old I am and I had to stop and really think about it. My kids? I usually know how old they are, same goes for my parents and my siblings. But me, I usually count forward from the time I got married or had the girls plus their age (this, my friends, is common core math at its finest – no need to align this year above my year of birth – lets go obscure and work it out). This exercise leaves me perplexed as I usually follow up with thinking that my math is off. Sometimes, I am fairly certain I am in my seventies and other times I could swear that I am still a teenager (then there was today when I stepped off the deck and nearly sprained my ankle and I felt firmly middle-aged – too young to think walking required major precaution, too old to carry that out).
I am at a sweet spot and I, for the first time, really realize that (this is much different than spending ears, (YEARS!!) of my life thinking that “If I only I (blank) I would be (blank)” fill in the blank with just about any cliché imaginable I languished at that foothold for far too long). At some point I recognized, as I scanned the room for a grown up, I actually belonged to that group and then I stopped looking for permission from myself which was a beautiful thing. In some ways that sharpened me a bit and I felt initially uncomfortable with having that fine edge that accompanies even the tiniest bit of authority when I realized that too could rule a person right back into a box. But as I grew older how I learned how uncompromising I was in certain areas and that softened me. I am officially old enough to know who I am and young enough to keep growing into myself a little more each day – which seems like a pretty great time to be alive.