My whole life, my paternal grandmother has always been 29 years old. Who cares if she's had 52 29th-Birthday parties, she's the grandma and we don't question her.
I've always wondered why she picked 29 to stop aging. Was she scared of 30? Did she like being 29? I don't imagine it was a very care free time: she had four boys at that point and handful does not go far enough to describe my uncles.
This all makes me think about how I feel about aging. I turned 29 yesterday and to be quite honest I don't feel much different. Today feels just about the same as last Sunday, though I had a great party last night.
My family, sans my father, came over last night, as did my husband's family and a few close friends. We had meatloaf, macaroni, cheese zombies, and tasty salads (imagine that.) We also had far too much wine. It was a fun time. I dressed up, curled my hair, and wore earrings. I felt really good about myself.
Today I'm going with my in-laws out to lunch in old Sac. I will again wear a sassy outfit. And I will do it all as a newly 29-year old woman.
I remember when waiting to be a year older was so exciting. "No, I'm not 11 anymore...I'm 12 now." I wonder when that stopped being the case. And I wonder why women lie about their ages. And more importantly, will I feel the pressure to do so?
Leave a Comment
Subscribe to Comments
Topics: birthdays, aging
No comments:
Post a Comment