And my real age is...

Since I’ve come to grad school, I haven’t been 100% honest about my age. When asked about my age, sometimes I outright lied, other times a played coy, “How old do you think I am?” Although, occasionally, the later approach backfired.

Why all the denial? Grad school was a tough shift. All my life I’ve been the baby. I am the youngest in my family and amongst my cousins, and the majority of my friends and boyfriends have all been older than me. Being the baby suits me well. I like being the entertainer and peacemaker. And I like the low expectations. Really, you just have to not screw something up entirely and people are impressed. And, if my appearance showed signs of age, they didn’t matter, because everyone else looked older.

All that changed when I came to grad school after working for 7 years post-undergrad. Suddenly, I was the oldest. Not just amongst my classmates, but among most of the graduate group. Suddenly, I was the one with experience, the one people went to for advice, the one that people expected to be prepared. What? Me? The baby? I also became the fat old one. Not glamorous at all.

And it didn’t help that I saw 30 as the end of life. Literally. Growing up, I never believed I would live past 30. I guess I figured I would get hit by a truck or have a heart attack (I’ve always loved bacon and butter). I just never thought this day would come.

I have also regretted the loss of some years in my 20s that I wish I had lived better. I thought by claiming to be the age I regretted, maybe I could erase those years and rewrite them. But the thing is, as you try to relive those years, you lose the ones you should be living now.

So, recently, something has changed in me. I think it might actually have to do with turning 30. I have found a peace with who and where I am. And my age. No more lying. I’m 31. There, it’s out there for the entire internet to read. For those of you in your 20s, aghast at the thought of being so old, let me assure you, it will happen to you, too. Let me also tell you, it’s not so bad. Here are some things to look forward to.

Yes, your body ages. However, fortunately, this happens at a time when you get some perspective and realize that all those little imperfections you spent your 20s worrying about, don’t actually matter. I can’t believe how much time I wasted fussing about and fighting against being pear shaped. I finally see, curves are hot. (The black men in Philly remind me of this daily.) And men are more impressed by a girl that likes herself and is comfortable in her own skin then some overly made-up hungry-looking girl. If some dude doesn’t find my full hips sexy, he’s gay.

I also wasted a lot of time in my 20s worrying about what people thought of me. I flipped out whenever I felt judged or if someone implied I was stupid. I guess I have to credit grad school with helping me get over that one. If I kept getting upset over those things, I would never calm down. I now see that only my opinions, and those of my closest family and friends, really matter.

Now that I’m in my 30s, I also feel more satisfied. I needed, or thought I needed, so many things in my 20s. Okay, my thirst for shoes has only worsened, but in other ways, I’ve come to realize, less is more. I don’t need an exotic vacation; I feel more rested after spending the weekend at my grandma’s. And the entertainment value of video games and movies pales in comparison to watching my cat chase bugs in the back yard.

I’ve finally got the basics figured out. I can cook a decent meal, mix a cocktail, and pick a wine to go with dinner. I can finesse most people at work into doing what I want and I don’t mind telling service staff what I expect. I’ve learned how to work with my hair instead of against it and how to pick flattering clothes. I can hem my pants, insulate my windows, and rid my home of various vermin. I can choose my friends and break up with a guy, though getting dumped still stings pretty bad.

I also see now, that it’s going to be okay. If this Christmas, or vacation, or football season sucked, that’s okay. There will be another one. If you don’t have your career perfectly planned, that’s okay, you can take another direction. If you fall on hard times, God will provide friends, or family, or even sometimes strangers to help lift you up. If you make a mistake, you can try again. If your life doesn’t go according to plan, you don’t own a home or have a husband or babies, you can make your alternatives work and be grateful for them.

So, in the end, I think I’m okay with my age. I can do this, and maybe even do it well. Just don’t ask me to think about 40…