I’ve lost count of the times that people my age — and younger — have already whined profusely about “getting so old.”
What is it about age that is so upsetting? Or maybe the more accurate question is, when did it become fashionable to complain about getting old? I know I’m not counting down the days until I can justifiably whine about counting down the days to my oh-so-fast-approaching old age.
Two months ago, I celebrated another year being tacked on to my life and I embraced every second. Matt took me to a cute French restaurant in one of the most unexpected areas of Toronto where we feasted on garlicky escargot, hearty cassoulet and to cap off the evening, a plate of a puffy profiteroles trio…
I’m not much of a dessert person, much less a chocolate person — that’s another explanation for another time — but that day, dessert was fitting somehow. An appropriately scrumptious way to celebrate my getting SO. OLD.
Aside from inevitable death, I suppose there are the obvious answers to the question of this irrational gerontophobia — dwindling health, saggy boobs, male patterned baldness.
I don’t know. Those thoughts don’t bother me all that much. Or at all. Or ever, really. You’re as old as you make yourself feel.
That last sentence works well as a mantra and for me, it stems from a cliched saying: growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional.
It may cause a few eye-rolls, but I hold its sentiment dear to my heart. I never want to be too old to enjoy the silly things that make me happy. I surround myself with youthful reminders from a toy-covered desk to recalling fond childhood memories to contemplating disruptive pranks at work.
So go on everyone. Keep thinking that you’re getting on in years and make yourself believe it. I’ll be the one hopping around in a bouncy castle and indulging in profiteroles, one slow, delicious bite at a time.
Then we’ll see who’s old.
