Time is doing that funny concertinaing thing again.
It is most confusing.
I know, these days, we’re taught that time isn’t linear or a constant, and I’m down with that; I’ve read enough SF to know the rules. I just respond in the strangest ways when it does that shit in real life.
There is no point banging on about being old. 50 is the new 35 and 19 year olds never did know what they were doing, and, anyway, with the advent of the internet, no one ever really dies any more.
On the other hand, I met my husband 30 years ago this week. I am 30 whole years older than I was when first we met. That’s two bolshy teenagers‘ worth. I realise that makes him 30 years older too; I’m not daft, but really?
My mother and sister were both grandparents by the time they were my age. How is that even possible? I look into my younger daughter’s wise, 20 year old eyes, and it’s as if I’m staring back at myself... and that’s how it’s possible.
Somehow, I am a 20 year old girl and a 35 year old woman, and my mother and my sister all rolled into one. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, but there is a little bit of me that wants to celebrate.
I’m calling it my midlife crisis, but, actually, I’m finding the daughter enchanting, the husband charming and witty, and my entire life utterly amusing. Some days I feel like it’s all speeding past and I’m living off a wing and a prayer. So be it.
Life’s too short.
In the meantime, I’m off to indulge the 20 year old in me. I’m not sure what’s more tempting, a good pair of jeans or a radical new hair colour, but something’s got to give, just a little bit... Something’s got to give soon, before I turn back into the woman that’s already been a grown-up for 30 years. Heaven forbid.