How is it that I can so acutely remember teasing a friend about turning 20, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can't be 20 on Sugar Mountain?* I was 18 at the time, and 20 was not going to happen for awhile. When I was 25, I was mortified to be one-quarter of a century. [You, of course, are mortified that I am such a geeky numbers person to think like that.] A research analyst, passing into the 35-44 age category struck me as soooooo wrong.
I left that age category awhile ago. Generally speaking, I've never been one to moan about how old I am getting. How the wrinkles are so pronounced. How I have gray hair. How I creak like an old lady. How I am an old lady. Having never been a girl, how I look has never been a deep concern of mine.
But I'm watching the days and weeks and months and years fly by like my life is in someone else's DVR and she's skipping through the commercials or boring parts to get to the meaty episodes. I want to slow it down. "Hey, lady, what is going on right now is the meaty part!"
She doesn't listen. She just keeps pushing fast forward. In no time, I'll be shedding tears at Youngest's graduation from college. That scene will fade into Youngest and his siblings shedding tears at my funeral.
*Dur, it's Neil Young's Sugar Mountain. Yes, I'm so old that I was alive when it was penned by Young in 1964.