Age is a peculiar thing. Sometimes it slaps you in the back of the head and at other times it simply points its finger at you, mocking you with laughter. I was in a lunch spot picking up take out across the street from our office in NYC. In the afternoon they play thumping music and you can’t hear yourself think. The crowd gravitates towards young’ish. 42 sat in my stomach like a rock when I heard “children” behind me talking about the “ragger” they had lined up for the weekend. These “children” were dressed in suits – I’m not even sure they could shave yet but clearly they were fresh out of college. Lately I’ve been a little unhinged about my age. First let me clarify that age in and of itself does not bother me. I’m fine with the aging process. Based on my physical condition I can (for the most part) still get away with a lot. Today for example I’m rocking a tight fashionable dress and stilettos that can kinda still turn heads. I can knock out 4 miles a day and technology has yet to outpace me. It has more to do with the where I am at this age. How little I’ve achieved at this age. How the window is closing(ed) on some of my dreams. What can you really get away with at 42? I’ve noticed that a mini skirt is just plain out of the question. I was trying a skirt on and realized that I could no longer wear whatever I wanted to. While I still contemplate a nose ring and a tattoo – I would probably also need to consider a career change. Maybe open up a soap shop in a beach town and give my earthly possessions. Which, by the way, is actually appealing. There is a complete shift or question of who I am. I felt more myself in my 20’s and early 30’s than I do now. I’m not sure how much of that was based on the possibilities still available to me. Versus how possibilities are seemingly not so much. At some point I wonder how much of myself I compromised to fit in and survive. How much of me is left in the rubble. How do I identify those pieces?
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