I notice it when the cartilage between my two knee bones hurts after a run. I notice it when I feel like I’m being condescending by nature and not by intentional bitchiness (okay, maybe it’s sometimes intentional). I notice it when I realize my metabolism has, to my great misfortune, begun to move at a glacial pace, and when I want that glass of wine because it goes nicely with the salmon and not because I can’t sit through a family dinner without turning up.
I have news for all of you: I am getting older. And there’s a big chance that you are, too, though I can only vouch for myself. On my journey forward through space and time towards the land of wrinkled frown lines and saggy boobs, I’ve discovered there are many ways in which we age that we are not forewarned about. Sure, the elders inform you about the deflation of your chestly womanhood, but there’s a bunch of stuff they don’t tell you about, too. I think this is unfair–there are signs of aging that need to be spoken of, that are not just centered in low self-esteem when it comes to your outer body, and I have decided to tell you about them. Every young woman deserves to know.
The first sign is when you don’t dread seeing your parents, siblings, and extended family when you go home. You also don’t dread the inevitable five pound weight gain that ensues over that three day weekend in suburbia, two days of which you will likely go braless and wear only stretchy clothes.
The second sign is that my phone never dies. Ever. It just doesn’t happen.
The third is that I enjoy waking up hungry for the following reasons: it means I didn’t have 2am pizza the night before and that I can enjoy a really pretentious Instagrammable brunch. Okay, so maybe the Insta part isn’t in line with aging, but the rest of it is. I’m ready to put my money where the mimosas are, and I’ll take that as a sign of maturity any day.
The fourth sign comes when I rummage through my bag and a tampon flies out into the air, completely defying gravity, and then lands like a small underage Chinese gymnast–very prominently, very noticeably, very gracefully–and a hush falls upon the crowd as I, with no shame, pick it up and put it back. Remember the days when you tucked your tampon into the belt of your jeans on your walk through the middle school hallways so that no one would see it? Yeah. No.
The fifth sign is that I can’t sleep off my hangovers. I wake up at 8am after a night of drinking–usually 8:03am, actually–because my bladder has exponentially weakened. And then I run to the bathroom to relieve myself and hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head: Your bladder’s already that bad? Good luck being pregnant.
The sixth sign is that I make an effort to only purchase things we call “nice essentials” rather than everything off the sale rack at Urban Outfitters. I told my mom about this change of heart, and she was like, “Um look at your debit card bill, just because you think you’re buying nicer things that are still from Urban Outfitters but just not on the sale rack still doesn’t mean that you need those nicer things–they are not essentials–but good try!!!”
The seventh sign is my discovery that I am neither a morning person nor am I a night person. I wake up early because I gotta do what I gotta do, and I stay up late if I have to, and none of the above are things I want to do, so that makes me a grown up. Grown ups don’t wanna do anything.
The eighth sign is in a similar vein: whenever I actually want to go to sleep, I cannot fall asleep.
The ninth sign is that I make an effort to wear nice pajamas and not just starchy rec. league t-shirts. Anything can constitute “nice pajamas” as long as it is soft and/or silky. So ex-boyfriends’ t-shirts? Fair game. I deserve to feel comfortable when I sleep. Why am I talking so much about sleep?
The tenth sign is that I’m much less jittery and not as likely to fall asleep during shavasana (the glorified nap at the end of yoga).
The eleventh, and perhaps most legitimate, sign that I’m becoming an adult is that I have the emergency credit card, but suddenly, not everything is an emergency anymore!!!! I’m actually spending my own money out of free will and fear of Jewish guilt.
Okay, so maybe I’m not getting older. Maybe I’m just getting more mature. That’s a good thing, though, because I don’t want to get older. But who knows? If I keep maturing, I may start. And if my boobs get saggy, they might look bigger, which isn’t the worst thing that could happen. I, like wine and cheese, will better with age.
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