I realized, just the other day, that in ten short years my son will be 23.
I find this alarming on many levels.
By the time I was twenty three, I was married with a two year old son.
That means, in ten short years, I could be a grandmother of a two year old.
Getting old isn't for wimps, my Dad would tell you.
The worst part is how fast it sneaks up on you, prowls up on sneakered feet that don't even squeek.
I don't feel old. I feel 20ish. Not 19, but not 29 either. Somewhere in the middle.
But I passed the middle of 24 ten years ago.
The good thing about getting older, I suppose, is the settled feeling of it all.
Not just settled because of gravity, but more self assured, more focused, more able (in feeling anyhow).
Don't get me wrong. I still doubt anything and everything I do.
But I also realize that most of what I do means very little in the long run.
I'll just forget they happened.
I suppose getting older means coming to terms with what actually matters.
Love, security, freedom, comfort. Intangibles, mostly, that shift as needed.
How lovely and strange this journey is.
Soon, my son will be 23.
Not too soon, thank goodness, but coming quick.