So today I turned 37.
I don’t pay much attention to birthdays and such….years of disregard and overblown expectations have left me at a place where I just can’t be bothered to pay much attention. I managed to convince my boss to convince four different people at work that no, I don’t want a cake, and no, I don’t want a big deal and no, no, no.
I don’t even like having my birthday written on a board but I deal with it.
The day itself, the theoretical turning of a year, another notch on the headboard of my years, I disregard. I am as old as I am, and will be however old I become. You can’t age out my brain after all.
But in thinking, staring at the foggy sunrise as we drove through the tweedy farmland, I realized how 7 years ago I was calling myself a youngin against the 40 some years of some other women I know, laughing, marveling, imagining what 40 must feel like. Believing it old, a marker against some mystery I’d never grasp. But now I’m nearing that point and I still know them and I still see the gasping wonder and disbelief I too feel.
We never really grow up. The elders in our lives are perpetually playing at being responsible and knowing what’s right. They don’t know either. They still feel like kids inside, deep inside. They still believe in hobbits and fairies. Their hair doesn’t fall out.
They don’t know either.
It comforted me, It scared me.
I shrugged, stared as always at the beautiful horses misty in the early day.
I’d feel old if I believed it possible.