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Aside From The Dysfunctional Hormones Aging Is Pretty Fucking Cool

When you turn thirty, there’s the swift euphoria that overtakes you, as you aggressively bid adieu to your twenties, and prepare for the full scale of womanhood.

Contrary to popular opinion, being twenty-something wasn’t so bad, and in fact I would it again. It was truly the decade of glorious discovery and life-changing adventures that commenced when I moved to New York City at the age of twenty-four.

Almost twenty years later, I’m not exactly draped with the pearls of wisdom that I should’ve amassed as a labeled mid-lifer; neither am I riding the wave of the appropriately envisioned high expectations with the practiced cockiness of a victor.

But I have blessedly reached the point in life, when it suddenly dawns on you that the person from 2004, will undoubtedly envy the calmer version of 2018, and wonder why it took so long for the “don’t give two fucks” mechanism to kick in.

And that’s perhaps the greatest gift that aging can bestow with quiet gusto as you begin to make the transition into the realm of existence, where everything is so vividly clear that you could potentially lose your eyesight, if you stare at the gems for too long.

You can finally enjoy those periodic trips down memory lane that don’t leave you with a bitter taste in your mouth. You’d much rather consume your spirit with energetic nostalgia, and the newly-minted pride of how you managed to survive the battles that could’ve stolen from you, and ended up enriching with celebratory attitude.

Of course there’s no way to downplay the brutal side effects of getting older and how that plays out in ways that aren’t ideal.

As a young woman who could divulge her age without hesitation, I was exceptionally lucky to enjoy the wealth of consistently good health.

And back then, it never occurred to me to be grateful. It seemed reasonable that I could burst out of bed an hour before dawn, and replicate the wirings of the energizer bunny, with gallons of booze to boot; before collapsing into a deep sleep and starting all over again when the mental alarm goes off.

As the older woman who is admittedly hesitant to divulge her age, the stacked up years have presented health challenges that can be attributed to the cause and effect of being around long enough to be afflicted.

But I can’t deny that aside from the dysfunctional hormones, aging is pretty fucking cool.

It’s kind of like being high all the time without the burning sensation of inhaling too hard because you can just breathe in the permission to not sweat the small stuff. The best part is how this particular characteristic initiates itself without your input. Back in the day, it was an exhausting endeavor, trying to convince yourself not to care about the close friend with the mood swings, who tends to stop answering your calls with no warning.

Now, you organically move on after a similar episode without investing needless time and energy into something or someone you can’t control.

And when it comes to being liked by everybody and forcing yourself to accommodate everyone, and anything that streams into your view — your advanced age redistributes those cells, accordingly. You actually prefer to downsize, and keep things streamlined to eliminate the hazardousness of unnecessary traffic, that clutters the soul and distracts from the tangibles in your midst.

That explains why social media is a manageable landscape of disorder, that arrived at a time when my withdrawals from the tendencies of seeking the approval of strangers had already begun its rescue mission. And so now, I get a kick out observing users who are my age or older, and have inexplicably not garnered the tools of engagement that prevents them for replicating the documented desperation of impressionable youngsters.

Also, the mastery of retaining confidence even when book deals, TV deals and other glitzy announcements threaten to derail your spirits, can’t be minimized. You have to go back to the battlefield of the nineties and how that climate wasn’t flexible enough to tolerate mediocrity or non-connected hustlers, who were forced to wait a decade later for adequate exposure.

When you’ve amassed enough buzzkills and error messages that were beyond lifesaving measures, the traffic lights that glaringly dominate your views with domineering authority may briefly divert attention.

Bur the bounce back is shepherded by the respectability of gratitude, and realizing how different times shouldn’t change the ability to stay focused on the journey that’s half way over — if you’re lucky.

The saying: “time is of the essence,” takes on deeper meaning when persistently treated with the dignity of mortality, through the channels of loss and the instinctual pangs of building a legacy.

You begin to settle into the pod of comprehension that dictates the relevancy of not living forever.

There was a time that the notion of not being alive was a frightening concept that couldn’t be entertained, but that mindset has been revised to recognize the reality of how powerless we are against the potency of fate.

The fear of death is a vague sensation that’s overpowered by the accumulated mileage that desensitizes the roster of worries that would ordinarily cripple and disorganize, if not for the assurance that the inevitable final exit will be here — sooner rather than later.

So if you have shit to do — better get to it, while making everything count.

Getting older is liberating and quite revealing, and that also adds value to living long enough to watch your hair turn gray, and experiencing the shock of secretly being the oldest one of the group.

You can escape the missteps that carry way more consequences, now more than ever. And making new friends is thankfully much harder, which means less drama and the freedom to be forthright with interactions that are worth the investment. The desire to always impress with the falsehood of perfections makes Instagram a worthwhile trip that doesn’t spin you out of control because you might just be the last of your kind.

The hormonal disorders aren’t a walk in the park for women who spent their fertile years, weathering menstrual cycles and the connectors that endorse womanhood, and the promises of that description. It’s beyond devastating to be abruptly deprived of what you assumed was here to stay; despite evidence that disputes your naivety.

But you get through it, with reckless abandon at first, and then the easing into the new normal becomes bearable when the alternative isn’t as appetizing.

When you’re twenty-eight, a bad day is having to cut your workout session to twenty-three minutes because you woke up late. When you’re considerably older, the bad days never go away — and the only way out is to assimilate them into the fabric that stretches accordingly — and creates the quilt that will define the wins and what wasn’t meant to be.

I love the changes on my face, and I don’t sweat the areas of the body that my sweaty movements can’t fix. I know that being “liked” doesn’t mean what it used to and I revel in the disciplined nature of not taking shit personally by readily acknowledging how being the most popular isn’t a status worth garnering.

But the most precious gift that accompanies the wear and tear of physical and mental, is the wholesomeness of all the parts that encompass where you’ve been and where you are headed.

Yes, I would totally accept the offer to re-enter my twenties, but that’s only with the confirmation that I can take this updated model with me — and that will definitely defeat the purpose.

None of my dreams came true, except the one that was supposed to expose my prowess as a writer. The enviable success that leads to heady accolades and expansive opportunities hasn’t happened, and the handsome hubby with the impossibly cute kiddies weren’t effortlessly delivered.

Yet, I feel alive and rejuvenated with the expectancy of shortening days and the determination to utilize each minute on my terms without compromise. I can take the time to notice the way the peeking sunlight against the clouds, subtly lights up the reddish leaves, as they dangle with foreboding release. I can tolerate my mother’s tantrums with new maturity and the guarantee that it won’t always be like this. I can engage with my nieces with prayers that they will recall the bonding in the moments that matter. I can leap out of bed and wince at the shooting pain in my leg, and leverage it as how much more worse things could be.

When you’re an old fart, your best days are every day, and not five years from now when the deadline for your “best life” runs out.

It’s all about here and now, which is great because that’s about all you can handle — anyway.

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