We recently had a birthday in our family and the birthday boy was unhappy. It seemed only to symbolize the approach of old age and his diminishing time left on the planet. Which is true, of course, but why is that so necessarily bad?
Myself, I feel at peace. I am in no rush. I don't want things to move any faster than they already are. But my past anxiety about aging, which was primarily wrapped up in vanity, seems to be vanishing in the face of what I view to be a much more exciting possibility. The possibility of finding out what I'm really made of. After all, it will be my chance to put my money where my mouth is. Time for the rubber to meet the road. All this time I have been convinced that I was a person of substance, of depth. At least, we hope for such things. We hope that our condemnation of things that are superficial will not end up including ourselves.
So, when I realize that I'm not that pretty anymore and my taste in clothes doesn't resemble anything remotely fashionable and my blood is not fresh and my generation is not up or coming to anywhere but the funeral home--then I will see whether I really had any depth after all, or if I was just a shallow girl in an intellectual's clothing. And if what I discover is disappointing, at least I will have the chance to change teams, if not out of the strength of my character, at least out of necessity.
It's going to be great.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
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