I turned 30 in November. Some of you may remember my husband's beautiful tribute to me on that day (yeah right).
When you turn 30, people freak out for you.
Their questions start pouring in. "Is it weird?" "Do you feel old?" "Are you freaking out?" Or, "I remember turning 30, I cried for three days straight!"
For the most part, I let other people do the "oh-my-gosh-she's-getting-older" freak-out for me, because it seemed other people were more concerned about the big day than I was. I played the role of a slightly shell-shocked 30-year-old graduate, but deep down, I was happy to be turning thirty. I was un-phased. The number thirty gives you more credibility. More stability. I felt like people were already taking me more seriously. I felt instantly wiser and more grounded. 30. A good sound number for a new mom and wife of almost nine years. Turning 30 was nothing. I decided that day- I loved getting older! I would relish the dwindling years of my life! I would age without worry! Without shame! Without fear!
I decided that day that getting older is enchanting and beautiful and rich. Getting older is complex and simple all in the same breath. Getting older is the great-adventure of life. I was so settled in my mind about aging...
UNTIL LAST NIGHT.
Last night, my friends, the unthinkable happened. And there I was begging the sweet Lord to please let me be 21 again. Because what happened last night was way worse than 30. What happened last night shook me to the core. What happened last night made me want to run, not walk, to the nearest fountain of youth. What happened last night was this...
My first gray hair. A long, silvery, thick, coarse, old-lady-that has 13 cats- gray hair.
I was traumatized.
The face of trauma.
Ryan immediately plucked it from my head and I immediately stuck it in a zip lock baggie. I don't really know what you're supposed to do with your first gray hair, but it seemed way too monumental too simply let it float to the floor or to simply toss it in the trash can. I assume I will keep it stored away with my two permanent teeth that my orthodontist pulled (without warning and without anesthetics) in the eighth grade. I'll keep it with the door stopper that the Romanian doctor stuck into my cast when I dislocated my achilles tendon from my heel, while living in the middle of no-where Romania. I will keep it with the one report card I have from junior high. And with the love letters from high school boyfriends. I will keep it in my memory box with all the other memorabilia that brings back horrifying or joyous memories.
Note: this will be categorized under the HORRIFYING memories!!!
We had a football party at the house last night and I told my girlfriends about the gray hair. My friend Becca thought I was "being dramatic." As if I am ever dramatic! So I went and got the zip lock baggie. Apparently they thought it was funny that I was saving it. But come on people... you gotta have memory standards. I have no idea where Annie's hospital bracelet is, but I'll be darned if I lose my first gray hair to the Dyson. So I showed everyone my first gray hair and that's when Becca said, "Dang, that thing's been growing forever! I thought you were just being dramatic."
On both accounts... thanks a lot Becca!
No- I'm not being dramatic Becca. I have a gray hair. A big, long, 'been-growing-forever' gray hair.
And let's be honest... I've scoured my scalp since then and found three more.
And with all my heart I wanted to write something inspiring or challenging or insightful today for you... but I just can't. I'm dealing. I'm coping. I'm begging God for my youth to be returned to me. I'm wondering if I need to start getting my hair colored. I'm wondering if I am stressed or if the hairs are just coming out because I'm truly on the downhill spiral of old age! I'm wondering at what rate they grow and how I'm supposed to find the ones on the back of my head? I'm wondering what's next. False teeth? Prolapsed body parts? Poor vision? Ugly feet?
I gotta say. Thirty was easy.
This is WAY worse than 30.