My age was showing this morning, like a sloppy slip hanging below the hem.
I had a birthday last week and my sister sent me an awesome present – a couple of CD’s where she burned a song for every year I’ve been alive. (Never mind exactly how many that is, but it makes for quite a playlist of rockin’ tunes.)
I made a comment in the office that my sister loves me, she made me a mix tape! Our pubertal intern looked at me cross-eyed. Mix tape? I had to explain when I was in school, if a feller had a fondness for a gal he created her a mix tape. The would-be Romeo recorded all his favorite songs; the sappier the selections, the harder the crush. Ah, the intricacy, and simplicity, of adolescent love.
All snickering aside from the 20-something, it did remind me that high school was a long time ago. For the most part birthdays don’t bother me, it’s just a number and it’s relative. You’re only as old as you feel, right?
The thing is I feel younger right now than I did five years ago, and it belies my true age. (Whether I look younger is debatable.) Although perhaps five years ago, entrenched in a controlling, abusive, unhappy relationship, I may have just been feeling much older than I truly was. Hmm, perspective.
Sometimes I look around at people of my generation and think… hmmm, these are my peers? I actually don’t have an overabundance of friends my own age. Their goals, lifestyles and realities seem so foreign to me. There’s commonality with my younger cronies in ideology but a lack of depth that experience brings. I admire the insight that my more established friends demonstrate, but feel separated by their resolute avoidance of risk and yearning for permanence.
I feel disconnected.