I am 32.
Eek.
I am not kind to the fact I’m in my 30s. I was a sad penguin the months leading up to my 30th birthday, and two plus years later, I still haven’t quite gotten used to being such an ‘adult’ age.
Not that I’m not good at being a functioning adult, mind you. I’m actually more than decent at it.
I pay my bills, I own a house, I am one half of a rad relationship, and one fourth (fifth, if you count our crazy dog) of a family unit that is not too shabby, ifIdosaysomyself. I know when to use my blinker, can change a tire, I put together the most intricate child’s toys for Christmas, I can whip up a decent meal, navigate the Internets, run a business and am smart enough to realize I am better off hiring someone to do my laundry than to keep messing it up myself.
That being said, I can’t help but wonder at what age I’ll feel weird walking into a Forever 21 and geeking out over a Star Wars shirt.
I ‘m pretty convinced I am destined to be that lady.
The one who rocks colored hair until the day she dies, maybe even a mohawk, still. I’ll be seventy, shopping for ten dollar t-shirts you can only wash once before they lose their shape, with random words like ‘I heart unicorns’ and ‘Je t’aime Paris’ ironed on in gold glitter. Then I’ll rock those shirts on top of poofy skirts and skinny jeans; and my granddaughter will want to steal all my shit, because “granny’s got all the style”. I’ll have more tattoos, and still wear a bikini to the beach. And my old lady self will look fabulous in said bikini. I’ll go skydiving and bungee jumping and take trips with the hubby to random places like Reykjavík and Phuket. Or put together a salacious ladies’ weekend in Vegas for my sixty-fifth birthday. Maybe I’ll be the first old timer to win The Amazing Race. And I’ll quote Drinking Out Of Cups until the day I die.
I am learning that being an adult doesn’t mean you have to give up all the colorful, random weirdness that makes you, you.
I don’t think I’ll ever shop at the Dress Barn, or stop going giddy-giddy gumdrops over any movie Marvel puts out between now and infinity. I am pretty confident in saying if good music is being played and a dance floor is near, I will be doing the robot at some point, no matter how old I am. And I’ll spit some rhymes like nobody’s business, even after I settle in at the local old folks’ home.
Yeah, we get older, that much is a given. Wrinkles, backaches, failing eyesight and forgetting where you put your keys keep reminding us of that. But, with age comes wisdom, not boredom. Walk around with confidence, strut your stuff like Tony Manero in the opening sequence of Saturday Night Fever; don’t ever let age dictate your style or what you choose to do with your life.
It is just a number.
And I’ll be perusing the overstuffed racks at Forever 21, well, forever.
Cheers,
LDee
Laura DeCarlo
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