"...when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one..."This is exactly how I feel whenever I stop to consider my age and what it all means. I am made of layers, or, in Whitman's words, "I contain multitudes."
When I was a kid, I remember thinking that 35 was old.
Now that I'm 35, I know better, but that kid in me is still there, still telling me that by now, by 35, I should be more settled, more stable. I don't feel as if I have somehow "arrived," that I have peaked. Nope. If anything, I'm unsettled. The five-year-old wants to play with paper and watch TV. The fifteen-year-old wants to sleep in all the time. The twenty-five-year-old can't stop checking Anthropologie for sales. The thirty-five-year old is starting to worry about retirement plans. They're all in there, so "35" just doesn't quite sum it up for me.
While thinking about this the other day, I realized that some scrap therapy was definitely in order. It was time to address the figurative layers with some literal ones:
(Full details may be found at Two Peas in a Bucket.)In my description of the layout on Two Peas in a Bucket, I mentioned that "I don't need to 'act my age' if I accept the fact that there is no script to follow." I need to hold on to that idea whenever I find myself thinking that by age #, I should be blah-blah-blah-ing. I really don't want to be one of the those people who measures my life solely in terms of years, who obsesses about her age, or who, when asked about her age, plays coy or appears to be insulted. If I have learned anything about age over the years, it is that age really is just a number, and mine isn't up yet.