Grey Hairs and Mean Little Boxes

I have jumped into a new age box. You know on forms, they ask you for an age range, well, now I’m in the next box. I didn’t like having to check that box this week. I wanted to go back to the old box. I was comfortable in that box. I had three or four good years in that box. So, here I am, checking off the new box, letting everyone know that I am part of that new, and let’s just say it, older group.

Assumptions can be made about me now that I am in this box. I am probably married, if not already divorced and on my second marriage (it happens.) I have at least one child, most likely more. I have worked at least ten years in some form or another. Speaking of which, I’m approaching a marker year for class reunions. I have grey hairs, multiple grey hairs.

But the truth is, it was only the box that I didn’t like, seeing that number staring back at me made it real. I wanted to avoid real. I want to pretend I can still make inappropriate clothing choices and eat cake anytime I want. And really, if I don’t check that box too often, I can almost forget I’m there, or at least be truly glad of where I actually am.

See, I am married, to a great man, and it’s only been the one man. And yes, I have two children, two beautiful, miraculous children who know my age, have been known to blurt it out to total strangers, even, and yet they don’t care. To them, I am all I need to be right now. I have worked in one capacity or another for over ten years, but the job I put most often on my resume these days is Mom, and I’m happy about that. I don’t know if I’ll go to my next special year reunion, but if I do, I’m going to dye those grey hairs and walk proudly in to see my old classmates, that distance and time have separated, but not esteem and friendship.