I like good blogs.
This one here is written by a funny, young woman in Rwanda, and it was recently her birthday.
So let’s briefly discuss birthdays.
The first time I recall thinking, “Yikes, I’m getting old!” was when watching a long-ago summer Olympics. A pert miniature gymnast was leaping, twirling, and bending in mind-boggling ways upon a mat. An obnoxious commentator was finishing tearing apart the tiny thing’s fascinating performance when another obnoxious commentator interjected with, “Well, it’s to be expected. After all, she’s past her prime at fifteen-years-old.”
After that, it seemed every so often an event would spark that same jumpy feeling… a sibling buying a car, a friend getting married, another friend having a baby, a college peer buying a house, seeing my daughter lose her baby teeth, re-writing resumes to include words like ‘decade’ and ‘late colleague’, enduring ‘age-appropriate’ medical exams, and celebrating big wedding anniversaries.
Finally, one year I decided to “get old”. When people asked that birthday what my age was, I said, “Old.”
It was liberating! To be labeled on your own terms, to be comfortable with your stage of life, to embrace your own history… the essence of confidence.
Besides, it’s always nice to hear the exasperated reply of, “Pfft! You’re not old!”
Well, I’m glad they think so.