I’ve been feeling my age lately. Which is not to say that I feel old. But aside from the arthritis and the grey hair and the need for anti-wrinkle night cream, I still feel fairly young. Probably because I am.
Yet still, I feel myself getting older. I have reached a point where I can start my sentences with the phrase “20 years ago.” And I know that plenty of people I know, especially my outrageously older brother and sisters, can do that as well, plus some. This isn’t a post complaining about how old I am. Just realizing how old I really am.
I noticed it today when I went to Braidwood to interview a young soldier who has just returned home from Afghanistan. He is 22. His brother is 20. As I spoke with them, I did not identify with these two young men. Instead, since I too have 2 boys, I identified with their mother. When my husband and I watch college football, I don’t look at those boys and think, “mmmmm hmmmm,” like I used to. I look at them and think, “Oh, their moms must be so proud.”
Yes — I am getting older.
That doesn’t mean I cannot be stupid.
Check this out:
That’s me and Jim, on a ride called “The Cliffhanger.” We layed down on this contraption — on purpose — and allowed a total stranger with a misspelled tattoo and a perpetual unfiltered cigarette dangling from his lip strap us in. Then we were tossed about from low to high, pretty sure that at any moment we could actually be thrown over the rooftops of beautiful Dwight, Illinois, home of the Harvest Days Festival. For two full minutes, we screamed like little girls as we went up and down, held in only by the single strongest link in a chain. When it was over, there were tiny little bugs in my hair, my teeth, smashed on my sunglasses, and several which saw their death smooshed right on to my bosom. No really, there were dead bugs in my bra. Sexy.
For two minutes on September 19, 2009, I did not feel my age. And man was it ever fun.