Perhaps it is obvious I am not 25 any more. Admittedly, there are telltale signs I am not 25 any more... crepe papery eyes, slightly saggy jowls (ever so slightly), a preference for comfy shoes (so long as they are cute) over slick hot high heel shoes, no matter how cute. But if I suck in my belly, lose my cheater readers and wear an outfit that gives the illusion of both a waistline and a bust, from a distance, in the right light, I do look 25.
Not that I want to BE 25, mind you... I would NOT ever again want to BE 25. Being 25 was hard -- I didn't know who I was , where I should go, or what to do. Actually I did -- at 25 I did know who I was (at 5 I knew who I was) -- I just didn't feel confident that it was all right to let her out.
At 25 I was more strong than brave, but I was working on it... at 25 I was a mother and trying pick a path through the maze of un-doing my life as a wife. To stay, to leave... if I left I knew for sure that the person to do the hauling and heavy lifting of my bags and belongings would be me. Fine. I was strong. A tough girl. A capable girl. And so I did. I carried my bags and my boy, I carried my books in a heavy bookbag through four years of college and it sure never occured to me that cutting my own weeds would pose even a question, much less a problem... when I was 25.
But now... now that I am not 25, now that the boy is well grown, the bags are permanently parked, I can easily forget that I am not 25... Time marched on when I wasn't looking, I wasn't aware... till I wield this weed eater for 15 minutes or so and for the rest of the day my arms ache. AChe. Aaaaaaaaack. I am SO NOT 25.
