Softer

The first thing I notice is the boots, brown, flat, beautiful, perfect. In another time, a time with two incomes and less mouths to feed, I would have asked her where she bought them. I would have run out and bought those boots or ones like them because I could. I would have been happy, the kind of happy that only beautiful boots can bring.

The next thing I notice are the leggings. They are black and grey in an interesting pattern. I chuckle to myself. Looking at my mocha and cookie, I know I could never wear those leggings. Not the way she does with her supermodel long legs, with her supermodel thin legs. I could not wear them without a long sweater to hide the things that needed hiding.

There was a time long ago when a girl I remember only in photos could have worn those leggings. She was supermodel tall, supermodel thin. She subsisted on coffee, Sprite, microwave popcorn, a few cigarettes and alcohol. She wore leggings like that. She could pull that off. People noticed how thin she was. She was complimented. Boys noticed her. She was happy in the way that only a cute boy noticing you can make you happy. Miserable and unhealthy but happy that she was thin.

I notice her hair. The length is what I am hoping to achieve later this year. The color is that beautiful honey color I have always wanted but never quite achieved. I make a mental note to discuss this with my stylist on Thursday. I will be happy, the kind of happy that only a new hair color can bring.

Her back is to me. I cannot tell her age. She could be young. She could be my age. I cannot see her face. I cannot know if she is happy or sad. I can only know myself.

I know that I am softer, rounder and wider than I wish I was. There are lumps and bulges I wish weren't there. Lucky my height hides the imperfections. There are days I can rock skinny jeans and leggings (with an appropriately long ass covering sweater) and days I cannot. My hair is almost back to it's natural color. It is sprinkled with gray, a nod to my age.

My clothes are not stylish nor fashionable. I wear jeans, a t-shirt and sweater that may or may not have been picked up off the floor in my rush to get three people dressed and out the door to school on time. My feet are clad in worn winter boots. Boots that no one would look twice at but keep me warm while I stand on the playground or frolic in the snow with my children.

But none of this matters to the woman I am now. I am happy, the kind of happy that comes from living life. I am blessed with the wisdom of time, struggle and acceptance.

Illogical

Last night as I was brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror and did an inspection of what I saw.

I noticed the winter paleness was already setting in, perhaps a result of having 3 sunny days in the entire month of October. I made a mental note to use a little blush so I could look human again. I noticed a pimple on my chin and sighed. 40 years old and I'm still getting pimples.

I moved on to my hair. As I said before, I'm a bit vain about my hair. I like it to look good. For a while now, I've been getting red highlights in my hair. I love them. They make me feel like a rebellious teenager at 40. But they don't last. I had them done 3 weeks ago and as I looked in the mirror I saw a blondish, pinkish, orangey mess. Not good. So I don't think I'll be getting them the next time I go in.

Then I looked at my roots. My hair has been colored various shades over the past 20 years and I don't know my real color anymore. I didn't get my roots done last time I went in, so its been over two months and you couldn't tell. So apparently I'm paying money to dye my hair its natural color (well with a little more red but its basically the same).

My inspection was almost over and I was ready to go to bed when I saw it. At first I wasn't sure what I saw. I thought it might be, but no it couldn't really be. Could it? No it definitely was. A grey hair. My first grey hair.

I felt a strange sensation. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't regret at getting older. I am older, its a fact.

It was something much weirder. I was excited. I felt this strange thrill at having my first grey hair.

Why? Well I still feel like this stupid little kid most of the time. I feel like I have no idea what is going on. And maybe, just maybe grey hair will impart some sort of wisdom on me.

Illogical I know. Give me a week and I'm sure I'll hate it.

Age Is Just A Number, Isn't It?

The other day I got a note from a collge friend on Facebook. He said his daughter had turned 13. I couldn't belive it. How could someone I went to college with have a 13 year old daughter.

But then I realized, I graduated from college almost 18 years ago. That's the age of a college freshman. Yikes! I'm old.

I know that I am old. I'm going to be 40 this year. That is no secret. And it doesn't bother me in the least that I am going to be 40. Do you want to know why?

Because I feel young.

And its not in the you're only as old as you feel kind of a way. Its a bit harder to explain than that.

Growing up, I was one of the younger kids in my class. I had a September birthday and the cut off was December 1st. So there were some kids who were almost a year older than me in my class. I was one of the last to start driving, one of the last to reach all the major milestones. I was always the baby of the group.

When I entered the workforce after college, I was clearly one of the "young ones." And I had no idea what I was doing so I felt young and naive. That feeling stuck with me. To this day if I am new to a situation and am learning the ropes, I always assume that the person showing me how to do it is older than me. Even if its clear they are only 18. They possess more knowledge of a particular subject therefore they are older.

Strange I know but its true.

When I went back to law school at 26, I was one of the oldest amongst my friends. But I was in school so I felt young. In school = young in my book (and I wonder why I want to go back to school now).

Now that I'm a mom, I feel young. I only have one child, a pre-schooler. I'm new to this game so I must be young. The more seasoned moms, with a few kids, must be older than me. I was with the wife of a law school classmate recently. She has three kids. She is sage and wise. She was giving me advice on preschools and dance classes. I started to have that feeling of being younger than her, when I realized that she is at least 8 years younger than me and I had to laugh

So here I am a young 39 and I'll soon be a young 40, but somedays I honestly feel like I'm only 25 (ok maybe 30).