I’m 33, but most days I feel 23.
If I’m being honest with myself, I look about 30, except when I smile. The crow’s feet definitely reveal my true age with a look that’s worn and weathered by years of work, marriage, parenting, and subpar moisturizer use.
I had to buy a bottle of wine for a hostess gift the other day, and the cashier asked my if I was under 40. That question hit me in the feels. I shrugged it off, then cried in the car (note: I’m pregnant. Crying in the car is daily occurrence). Not one to easily let things go, I called my husband to see how old he thought I looked. Not that 40 is old, at all, but I’m still a few years away from that age bracket.
There’s something odd that happens in your 30s – at least the way I’ve experienced it. You feel as though you stop being seen. The introvert in me is totally fine not being seen, but the woman in me would like a little adoration – even if it’s from the wine checkout girl. The older I get, as vain as it may be, the less I feel seen.
I feel as though society sets us 30-year-old, female, mothers on two ends of the spectrum. One side of the spectrum telling us we need every cream, injection, lift, tuck, nip, pull, and hormone replacement. While the other end of the spectrum tells us we shouldn’t even worry about appearance because we are smart educated women, and smart educated women are above caring about their appearance. Like most situations in life, I fall smack dab in the middle. Constantly torn between wanting the Botox and realizing that injecting botulism inches away from my brain is probably not my best idea.
I would love to have a strong closing here about how a lightbulb went off, or how I came to the realization that I just need to accept my aging looks, but the truth is, I’m still working through it. I totally embrace the wisdom that has come with being in my 30s. So, I’ll take the youthful sparkly of my 20s and raise it the wisdom gleaned from experience in my 30s.
One new piece of wisdom to share with world – always have your ID out when buying wine. It’ll save you the existential crisis that ensues when the cashier asks your age.
