I've been feeling older lately. Not old, but older. I'll be thirty four in exactly one month, an age that isn't middle-aged, but is also no longer young. An age that feels somewhat lost in the mix. Ten years ago, I would look at thirty four year-olds and think that they were so together, so on top of their shit. I realize, now, that there is a sort of strange confidence that comes with this age that only gives the illusion of having it all figured out. This is all to say that I don't have it all figured out (not even close), and oddly enough there is a hefty amount of comfort in understanding that you'll probably never have it all figured out. To succumb to the ebb and flow of life, to know that some days are wildly exciting and some days are horrid beyond belief, but most days are just days... that, right there, is a thing of beauty.
I'm approaching this new year in my life in a way that I never have before. Birthdays used to come and I would say to myself, "Celia, this is the year that you will do that, and consequently this will happen for you." That thought process feels so peculiar now. Instead, I look ahead at thirty four with my head full of ever-multiplying grey hairs, and remind myself that this is the year in which all of that starts to not matter. Life is not a competition, or a race to the finish line. We cheapen it when we treat it so.
I like feeling older. It makes me feel wiser, too. And it reminds me that going to bed by 11 is almost always a good idea.
Beautiful Jellies from the Aquarium of the Bay