I was appalled by this.
She went on to say that of course she was happy she wasn’t 21, but in her mind she looked and felt like her 21 year old self, almost as if she hadn’t aged at all mentally and couldn’t believe her face had been rude enough to age all on it’s own.
Honestly, there were a million things I could have said about this. I might have been supportive and told her how lovely she had become, or sympathized with how distressing and strange it must be to feel that disconnect. Or, I could have just been nice and said that she still looked pretty much 21 to me.
Instead, I’m fairly sure I snorted, gagged a little, made a face, and said, “Are you joking?” But what I wanted to say, what I was saying to myself, was: Lady, you are old, old, old. You are as old as they come. It’s hardly possible to be older than you are. You are a mother, my mother, and you are ancient. You are nowhere near 21 in any way. And, apparently, delusional.
Because at 19, one aspires to 21 only because you can drink legally then. You have no idea that you will, at 21, probably have the best skin and body you’ll ever have, for the rest of your life. You’ll also have a gazillion other fabulous perks, including dreams of winning an Oscar and boyfriends and heart-pounding kisses and heart-wrenching breakups and midterms and only yourself to look after and clean up after and worry about.
But the skin and the body are what will gnaw at you, later.
So that is what I said to my mom, who was merely laying down the facts for me a little earlier than I was ready to hear them. I made a mental note, in all my 19-year-old glory, to do a much better job growing old gracefully and maintaining a bit of dignity. And I chalked it up to one of those weird things parents say that has no actual bearing on your life, and I moved on. But I never forgot it.
(As an aside, during that same visit my mom said that she and my father, married for probably 25 years at the time of this comment, had had a “difficult year” together. Having never really had a boyfriend for more than 6 months, I was literally dumbed by the possibility of a difficult year with someone that ended in anything other than a break-up, and never forgot that either. Like being slapped on both sides of my face, that visit was.)
And now, I’m 34. It’s no 48, to be clear. But I have two kids, and a 10-year marriage, and a mortgage and a yard to rake and poop to clean and meals to make and a cleaning lady and a will. I had not one of those things at 19, or at 21. But privately, in my own head, if I don’t think too hard about it, if I sort of mentally sidle up to the issue of what age I think I am, it’s 21. And if I am even sneakier about it, and really don’t give the logical side of my brain any time to consider the answer, I probably even think I still look 21.
Surprising, isn’t it? Just like my mom, I don’t want to be 21. I can’t remember the last time I even gave my life at that age any thought, much less a wistful sigh in it’s direction. But let me tell you, I am staring in that mirror myself these days, and wondering what that middle-aged mommy staring back did with me, the face I know to be mine. If the face I know is gone, what else have I lost without noticing?
us, 24-ish years later
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