Maybe Peter Pan wasn’t such a weirdo after all…

Lately I’ve been having a really hard time with age.First of all, I’m turning 27 in a month and kind of freaking out about it. That’s closer to 30 than I’ve ever been. That’s “late twenties.” That’s….I should probably have my shit together by now. My twenties have kind of sucked. I didn’t get the decade they show in the movies where you party into the wee hours of the morn and are glamorously broke and just don’t give a damn. I worked as a server full time while going to school full time (double major no less), left a bad relationship that wasted most of my late teen/early twenty years, found out I was pregnant, got back into the terrible relationship, had baby, ran like a fugitive and suffered a break up that nearly broke me. I was in and out of court in two different states, started a new life alone in a new state, was so unglamorously broke it was scary, and was trying to raise a demanding, beautiful child all on my own. THAT has been my past 10 years. Definitely not movie worthy. Now I feel my youth is waning and now I’m just exhausted, damaged and boring. Going out sounds fun, sometimes, until the time actually comes and then I find any reason to bail. Staying up past 11 is difficult and frankly rarely worth it. My newsfeed is full newborns and wedding announcements or pleas for potting training help. My once strong, skinny, body is flabby, curvy and striped with stretch marks. My idea of a hot date is a meal I don’t have to cook (bonus points if it doesn’t make me bloated!), a glass of wine and being on the couch in sweats by ten o’clock (my poor, poor C). Is this what thirty is? 

I keep hearing that thirty is way better than your twenties because you actually come in to your own self. You’ve been through enough shit to know what you can handle, what you won’t tolerate and what you want out of this thing called life. I guess I can believe that. I’m definitely a stronger, more outspoken person now then I was back at twenty. I have more going for me now…a healthy, gorgeous son that makes all the pain disappear when he smiles, a stable, happy relationship that shows me what love IS, instead of what it is not, a decent paying job that I love, a degree (although to be fair I’m not using it), and a sometimes clean, decently big enough apartment to shelter us. My bills are paid, cupboards are usually stocked and my gas tank is not constantly on empty any more (breathe easy, Mama). So from the perspective of important shit in life, turning thirty is promising. It’s good. It means I’ve made it. But I still struggle. I’m not ready for the PHYSICAL changes of getting older. My tummy pooches and wiggles. My butt widens and sags every month I swear. I noticed crows feet in a picture today. My arms have started to flap when I wave. Yeah, I could exercise and fix that. But at the end of the day, I have no energy and other commitments to oversee. So I just try to accept that I’m aging, like everybody else, and not obsess. But then…CROWS FEET?!?! I’m not old enough for CROWS FEET!!! Or laugh lines! Or a Pillsbury Doughboy tummy! Where’d my abs go?! My strong I-swim-do-yoga-and-horse-chores arms?! HOW AM I ALMOST THIRTY!!!!!????

I know, I know, #firstworldproblems right? I know I have been showered with love, life and blessings far more than I deserve. But that doesn’t help my brain to wrap around that fact that I’m on the threshold of thirty. I’m “mature.” I’m fast not becoming a “twenty-something.”

And to top it all off, my baby boy is turning FOUR right after I turn twenty seven. FOUR!!!! I’m not sure how that happened. But I’m damn sure I’m not ready for him to start kindergarten, because that leads to high school which leads to COLLEGE which leads to him being a man and moving away and…and…and….

Stawp it.

I can’t. 

Let’s just say growing up sucks. It was trap. But a meaningful, beautiful trap.

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