On the eve of my seventh birthday my mom sat on the edge of my bed wondering if I was excited for a day sure to be spent drunk off stale candy at the local Rocky and Bullwinkle Arcade and Fun Zone. Instead of using aging as some kind of leverage for getting to stay up later or for riding shotgun in carpool, I started crying because I knew “I would never be six again.”
I’m sure my mom was hoping as I got older that I would outgrow rubbing my boogers on the legs of her dining room chairs and making homes for my troll dolls in her dryer, but now she had something more unusual to wish for me to outgrow: Peter Pan Syndrome.
On the eve of my 30th birthday I was busy in the backyard putting sunflowers into vases and approving the height of twinkle lights before 50 people would be over the next day. I stayed up until 11:30 so I could paint a small wooden house we constructed for a new family member who would need me all of the time for as long as I could currently imagine. That week we had been to a funeral for a co-worker. That week a friend who seemed endless took her last breath in a battle against a cancer that wouldn’t waver.
If someone had pointed out that it was the last night of my 20s, I probably wouldn’t have been stoked, but I knew it was anyways, I just couldn’t mourn numbers anymore.
I don’t know exactly what my life is for. I don’t know why some people don’t get as much time to live theirs as we think they deserve. I don’t think wrinkles and grey hair look regal or bold or sexy yet. I don’t want Scott to go bald, but I also know that to worry about any of that isn’t the point either. I guess there comes a time when you just have to outgrow living your own clichés.