Calling in Sick!

I was not feeling well yesterday blogarama fans, so here's a flashback to my first blog, Divorce Land. This post was originally published on October 13, 2008. It's still a relevant lesson and life observation, enjoy!:

Why I Never want to be 25 Again

The best part of cleaning closets, I think, is the part where I stumble across a box of old photos, cards and letters. And then promptly lose myself in the past for a good twenty minutes.

Last weekend I did just that. While sorting through the contents of the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I couldn’t resist cracking open a photo album from my college days. Of course, my initial response was to cringe at my hideous hair (I swear, I never smoked pot in college. But with hair that high and huge, it is almost embarrassing to admit that I did that to my myself sober. And on purpose.)

One of the pictures was of an old boyfriend I am still in touch with. I couldn’t resist snapping a camera phone copy and shooting it off to him immediately.

“Check this out,” my accompanying text message read, “I found this in an old album, had to send it to you.”

I wondered what he would say.

After all, almost twenty years had passed (okay, only eighteen, but still) since he and his friends had leaned against my dorm room wall and smiled into my camera lens.

He texted back in about five seconds, his response exactly on target.

A simple observation summing up what almost two decades of living had done.

“I miss my bangs.”

Was his reply.

I just rolled around on my closet floor for a while laughing. I did. I absolutely did. So much for any profound nostalgia.

When it comes down to it, the guy just misses his hair.

And so began a texting repertoire documenting our lost youth. On my part, I missed my pre-baby no stretch mark 20-something body. He was on a hair kick I guess because he texted back how he missed not having grey in the hair he does have. Oh fine, I jumped on that bandwagon and gave thanks that although mine isn’t greying (yet, knock on wood) I certainly do miss having all that hair (even if it was big enough for its own zip code.)

On we went, lamenting what time has stolen.

Eventually I had to get back to cleaning that closet. I thanked him for the chuckles and wished him a good bang-less kinda/sorta greying fabulous day.

And as I continued sorting through my boxes of junk, I wondered:

Do I really mourn the loss of my youth? Hmmm. Well, maybe some things. But I am in my 30’s in the age of botox, gym memberships, and teeth whitening. I don’t look half bad for my age. The little bit time has done, I can live with. Yeah, I have stretch marks, but I take care of myself so underneath them are abs of steel. And lest not forget, I have two fantastic kids. I think they were worth it.

And truly, when I look back at those pictures, yeah, I had a lot of hair, but what was underneath that 80’s mane was the spirit of a young woman who had so much yet to learn.

Would I really like to go back there?

Are ya kiddn’ me? No way Jose’.

After I really thought about it, time doesn’t steal so much as it bestows.

When I was in my 20’s I thought I knew everything yet I wasn’t quite sure enough of myself to live like I did. I second-guessed all my decisions, and if I didn’t, then I stood behind them with extra helpings of conviction, just to make sure.

Life seemed to have a black and white road map back then and I stuck rigidly to the course. I lived my life how it was supposed to be. I was militant about following the guide books. And always did what I perceived to be the “right” thing.

But then I turned thirty, and life got grey. Things didn’t go as I had planned, and suddenly everything I thought I knew just . . . disappeared.

And now, I’m past the mid-way point of my 30’s, and these grey areas, honestly? Are far more comfortable. I understand that people, myself included, don’t fit neatly into all the boxes I had drawn in my 20’s. There’s overlap, muddy places and sometimes everyone around me is just coloring outside the lines.

Oh well.

You see, I feel a peace about life now that I never could find a decade ago when I tried to shove everything into neatly labeled boxes of my own making.

But now? The boxes are gone. I let things flow. And peace has miraculously descended.

So let time march on. Let the grey dance slowly into our hair.

But more importantly, let the murky areas of life seep into our realities. For with time, and age, comes wisdom, acceptance, and peace.

In many shiny and stunningly beautiful shades.

Of grey.