My birthday was last week. My husband's birthday was yesterday.
For one week we are the same age. (And that age is really bothering me.) He is now one year older. And it's not bothering him. He says it's just a number. He says that you are only as old as you feel. He says to enjoy the life you have now. He even says that the older I get, the longer he will have loved me.
I have never had an issue with age before. Twenty-nine to thirty. No problem. Early thirties. Easy. I was even okay with thirty-five and thirty-six and thirty-seven.
I was okay with sharing my age. Telling my students the year I was born and letting them do the math. I usually had to do the math too because age wasn't a concern. I even had no issues when they started saying that I was older than their parents.
But for ten days I have not forgotten my age. For ten days I have been thirty-eight and this number scares me. Really scares me. It's not that I don't feel thirty-eight, whatever that is supposed to feel like. I still feel the same.
Perhaps the closest biggest step is (shhh!) forty. That scares me a little. Yet, I know forty is not old like it used to be years ago. (You know, when I was younger.) Fifty and even sixty these days aren't considered old, especially when everyone is looking great and active and healthy.
Age truly can't be defined by a number.
But have I really lived a life of almost forty years on this earth? And why am I letting thirty-eight bother me? I still have two years (less than 730 days) before that big four-oh comes. I need to listen to my husband. It's just a number. I'm only as old as I feel. I need to enjoy my life now. I need to let my husband love me more.
But, just so you know, I'm still cringing at the thought of thirty-eight. (Ugh.)