The Clichéd but True Lessons of Chronos

I have been overwhelmed, recently, with the sensation of time passing. Suddenly, I am now the mother of not one, but two. Suddenly, I have my family, and here we are going on down the road. The nephew to whom I used to read Dr. Seuss is about to start high school. My father's pants hang too loose on his thinning frame, and I think, "When did that happen?"

I can't fight it, though, and that's been good for me. I realize, for instance, that part of me just expected to look like I did at 22 once I reached 32. I don't, of course, but was I satisfied with how I looked then? Not a chance. I see my mother, and think about how different she looks from when we were little, and it's instantly obvious to me that the time for pining is over and done. Basically, if I can wear a skirt, I had better do it, because the little changes I see in the mirror are only going to compound as time goes by. For years and years-- heck, even through last Christmas-- I've hated to dress up because I've always fallen short of that Platonic ideal of myself that was projected on a dorm wall some time at 19. That was ridiculous. I regret all the pre-baby years I didn't wear a bikini, because even I admit that doing so now would be taking things too far. Why couldn't I see how young I was then? Why couldn't I see that things were--are-- fine?

I'm making a concrete effort to do that now, and doing so feels like one of those solid, chewy lessons we can all remember getting at one point or another. A sort of mile-marker. I marvel, as I age, how much of the stuff I've really learned about growing up has taken place well after I started calling myself a grown-up. I've only just recently realized that the free and easy friendships were the only ones worth cultivating. I've had so many friendships die on the vine because of over-zealous tending on my part. It's the forgiving kitchen cactus kind of friendships that grow into the good ones, but boy have I spent a lot of time and anguish and anxiety trying to force blooms elsewhere.

I'm trying to be done with that, and it feels good. Just as it feels good to wear a shirt*, even though my stomach pooches out. I wouldn't have done that at 22, but all that means now is that I didn't do something I could have done.

As Bob Dylan so eloquently put it, "I was so much older then-- I'm younger than that now."

*I meant to type "skirt," but it cracked me up when I came back and saw the typo, so I'm leaving it. Yes-- it does indeed feel good to wear a shirt. Socially required, even. ;'}