Note to Self

Dear Self,

Your 33rd birthday is fast approaching. You have a mortgage payment, car seats, and endless responsibilities.

Face it: YOU ARE A GROWN-UP.

Stop shopping in the juniors section. Those jeans are cut for girls who have never seen a pregnancy. Those tops are made for kids who have never breastfed. Those underwear, well only a girl unschooled in the ways of the world could believe that they are even remotely comfortable.

Get a grip. You cannot simultaneously color your grey hairs and shop with the teeny-boppers for t-shirts that declare, "I might like you better if you recycled." It defies the laws of the universe. Or something...

You are getting old. You hands are looking freakishly similar to your mother's, and you're getting those little wrinkly lines at the corners of your eyes.

And while I'm on the topic of aging gracefully I'd like to touch on the sensitive topic of you BMI. I've noticed that it's been creeping up with the years, probably at a rate that matches your cholesterol and blood pressure. Honey, you are not 19. Gone are the days that you could eat chocolate chip cookies with your lettuce salad and expect to slip into your size 8 jeans with nary a groan. Henceforth you will have to join the throngs of adult American woman who have learned to count calories or suffer the consequences.

But take heart, Self, growing older is not all doom and gloom. Because along with a matronly wardrobe and a depressed metabolism you get wisdom that can only be bought with years. You have confidence in a saviour who you has come through for you time and time again. And those scars, and stretchmarks each tell a story. Your life is deeper, richer, and more complex for those stories, and in the end a teeny-bopper wardrobe and your youth are a small price to pay for the richness the years have afforded.


Most Affectionately Yours,

Me