Aging

The other day, I wrote a stream of consciousness poem that revealed to me that I need to handle aging with more grace and a greater sense of hope. It was absolutely bleak.

On Friday, a kind older gentleman stopped by the house to deliver something I’d bought from him. We ended up chatting, and he mentioned that last week, he was selling something to a young woman. Then he quickly said he didn’t mean I wasn’t young, but this other girl was in her mid twenties. I handled it gracefully, I think. I said it was okay, that I’m 36, so I’m not what people mean when they say young woman. Truly, the man was kind, and I am not at all angry. Yet I can’t help but feel some sadness. I’m not old yet. I would argue I’m not middle aged yet either. But my youth is over.

It’s not like I didn’t know this on some level. But hearing it so plainly hit home. Youth can’t last forever. I have a lot of invaluable experience now and memories I wouldn’t trade for anything. But it still stung. I feel closer to death. As a person with Bipolar Disorder I frequently feel close to death when I’m depressed. But now I’m starting to feel it the rest of the time, too.

Youth has so much beauty and possibility. But being in my late 30s doesn’t make me hideous. And my life is not over. God willing, I have many more years to write, make art, and love my family. I can still study new things and learn new skills. I can see new places when I am able to travel. Life is still full of promise. It doesn’t end when you leave your early 30s. Still, I can’t help feeling a little sad. I will miss being a young woman. But middle age is up next in a few years and I need to make it count.

The thumbnail image is a little collage I made.