May 29, 2012


I read a touching essay and poignant reminder how quickly it goes.

This stark reminder is from a young Yale student, who died this past Saturday. Ms. Marina Keegan wrote,

"I plan on having parties when I’m 30. I plan on having fun when I’m old." 

She says 30, then says old.

I pause. A part of me wants to scream, "WHAT?"
30 isn't old.
Instead that way-past-30-voice silenced me and said, but 22 is young. In Ms. Keegan's own words,

“We’re so young. We’re so young,” she wrote. “We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time.”
I don't chase youth. I don't need to be young. I need to be me. I need to be the mom who makes her teenagers cringe on occasion. I need to think I'm cool when I'm not. I need that moment of hilarity when I mess up yet another lyric to another song and my teenagers burst into laughter at my ineptitude. I need them to have their language, while I retain mine. I need to hear a recent college graduate tell me "I'm so glad we'll have someone to be "the mom" in our group."

There is a slice of me scoffing, perhaps even denying my age. The refrain is familiar. I look in the mirror and stretch, tug and pull at myself analyzing if indeed I "am my age".  I whisper defiantly that I "don't look it" but when I'm brutally honest and true, I do. I look my age and I act it.

And I am happy about it.

The alternative doesn't work well for me.


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