Every year of my adult life has been better than the last.
I’m not sure if I’ve been exceptionally lucky and my experiences keep getting better or if the experiences are irrelevant because it’s more about my attitude.
I lean towards the latter, but it doesn’t matter. In either case, I love getting older.
As a young adult, I spent many years wishing I were older, pining for the days when I could do something else.
I graduated from high school when I was 16, and I felt like my life was about to begin. I blossomed in the freedom of college, but I couldn’t wait to be 21 so that I would be recognized as something more than a flaky teenager.
Alcohol also may have also been a factor.
{ahem}
I graduated from college when I was 21. One month later, I started my first job. A month after that, I bought the home I still live in. I felt like my life had really begun, but I couldn’t wait to be 25 so I could get on with it. I mostly hung out with my mom and her friends, and I thought maybe I should make some friends of my own.
Or something.
Prior to meeting my husband, I planned to be a single professional for life. I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t want to share my space with anyone. I most certainly did not want to have any children.
I met him when I was 25. Three months later, I knew we’d get married and have children. I couldn’t wait for my new life to get started.
My older daughter was born just about three years after I met my husband, and I felt like my life had begun anew. I was 28. I couldn’t wait to be 30 so people would recognize me as the serious, mature adult that I was.
I rejoiced when I turned 30, and I finally learned to stop wishing my time away.
I started enjoying the days I have. I get to study the Bible and attend church without worry of persecution. I get to guide two joyful, intense individuals as they speed toward adulthood. I get to love a man who adores me and will do anything in the world to make me happy. I get to work from home. I get to see my family often. I get to know a lot of kind, honest, decent people.
I turned 33 this month. This is the prime of my life.
Except what if it isn’t?
I’m pretty sure I’m going to love being 43, too. My kids will be 15 and 12. Life steeped in adolescent girlhood may not be peaceful and serene, but it will be exciting and full. My girls will be more independent and require less hands-on maintenance. (I hope!) They’ll be sophisticated and knowledgeable. I’ll have more time to myself, more time to write and work and get pedicures. Joe and I will have time to spend as a couple. I’m excited about the possibilities.
I imagine I’ll like being 53, too. My kids will then be 25 and 22, and (hopefully) living on their own as competent, content adults. Joe and I will hardly know what to do with ourselves. I’ll be able to do my own thing whenever I want. Hopefully, I’ll have done something tremendous, helping lots of people or made a lot of money or something.
And 63! I’m sure I’ll still be working like mad in my own business. With any luck, I’ll have a couple of grandchildren. If my own kids are any preview, I think I will be in heaven as a grandma. (Although, my older daughter says she’s never leaving home, so the grandchildren thing is iffy on her end.)
73! My grandchildren will be growing up, and Grace and Allie will be old ladies. My girls may be successful professionals, and my own business will be moving right along. Joe will be retired, and we’ll be traveling all over the world.
83, if I’m blessed to live that long, could see great grandchildren! I hope so because I will be a great Old Grandma just like my Grandma is great.
I can’t wrap my mind around 93, despite my best efforts. I just can’t see it. It’s possible, thanks to modern medicine. My Gran (my dad’s mother) turned 90 this year, so I have the genes for it, even if I lack the vision.
I’ve learned to stop wishing the years away, but still I have so much to look forward to. I hope I’m always able to feel like I do now, that this is the prime of my life!, better than ever before.
