Looking at 35

When I was little, the night before my birthday, I would always look out my bedroom window, breathe in the smell of fresh lilacs and eagerly anticipate the onset of summer. I still can picture the pinkish purple sky, the sun setting while I listened to tractors growling by our house, still trying to take advantage of that last piece of daylight before farmers turned in for the night. I could hardly sleep knowing what surprises might await me the next day; a new Barbie, a Cabbage Patch doll, a tape cassette of my favorite music (Madonna, Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, you name it. I was  a slave to late 80’s pop).  My mom would then come upstairs, tuck me in (although sometimes it was so hot, the only tucking in she would need to do would be the lone sheet around my leg), and would lean down to kiss my forehead and tell me about how I was born however many years ago on a dark and stormy night…

Now, here I am, many years later and a grown woman. It’s still hard for me to wrap my arms around the word “grown”. What does that word exactly mean anyway? For sure, I have grown a bit in height, catching up  with some of my other peers (not by many inches, but at least I don’t feel like I’m part of the Lollipop Guild anymore). Certainly being “grown”  doesn’t mean what fills up my shirts, blouses and tank tops. That, my friends, was a lost cause a long time ago. Although I hold down a pretty good job, have a nice apartment living on my own in a great city, am responsible for two judgmental and emotionally imbalanced cats, I still don’t feel grown up. For years, my mother would tell me “Now, Leah, just be a lady.” Or older siblings would say, “Leah, just wait until you grow up. Then you’ll understand.” But I don’t think I yet do. Every day is a new learning experience, and to be grown up, doesn’t that mean you get to the point where you have to know everything? And have to understand everything?

Sure, there are physical hints to my growing age. Just a few weeks ago, I was at a restaurant in Harvard Square where I insisted that the waiter check my license when I ordered a margarita. He obliged, only to look at it, smile and return it to me, saying “Wow, you’re my mom’s age.” Wow, you’re not getting a tip, you smart ass hipster-wannabe.  If I had a larger purse, I would have beat him about the head with it. I wanted to sink through the floor as the two nineteen year old girls next to my table smirked at me.  I’ll give you something to laugh about, you over-developed Kardashians. If I ate a whole crap-load of preservatives and hormone-laden milk when I was a kid, I’d look like you too.  I mean, body parts just aren’t meant to sit that high.  Sure, I have laugh lines around my eyes – laugh lines, not wrinkles – and some strands of gray in my roots that I’ve been trying to push off as blonde, but you know what, I still have a butt that won’t quit and a smile that will stop traffic. So where is the growing that’s supposed to happen? Cause the only thing I feel are body parts going downhill, cricks in my joints and my eggs drying up. Now how is that growing?

I’ve always been the type of person who wants approval. When I was little, I always wanted approval from everyone and their brother that I was being a “good girl”; whether that meant I was sitting still in church, paid attention and listened in school or didn’t talk back at home. Granted, I was not an A+ student in any of these categories. But you can’t blame a girl for trying. See, that’s why the approvals were great motivators – I loved the high you got from getting a pat on the back or a gold star or a “I’m so proud of you.” I could ride on that kind of stuff for weeks. And quite frankly, I’m still that way. At work, with my friends and with my family. Knowing that I have the whole team on my bandwagon is a “feel good place” for Leah. If someone hesitates in jumping fully on, well now, that doesn’t feel so good. What do you mean you don’t want to? But I KNOW what I’m doing! Look at me, look at how I got here, look at all I’ve done for you, don’t you trust me? And in my head, I’m stomping my feet all over again like a little girl trying to gain that approval rather than concentrating on why I, now as a grown woman, I wanted or  needed to make that decision in the first place.

You know the real times when I feel grown up? When I can go to McDonalds and no one will tell me “no, Leah, not tonight” or “how about the 6 piece instead of the 9?”. When I plan a vacation, I think wow, I really could go anywhere and if I set aside some money, I can afford to do so  and no one says, “You can’t go” or “Will this vacation be chaperoned?” (Although, looking back, I’m sure some vacations I’ve taken as a “grown-up” should have probably been chaperoned. But that’s another story). Or there are times when I make a decision at work, and it’s all up to me. No one is there to slap my hand and say, “Nope, that’s not the answer, Leah. Try again.” or “Stop asking your neighbor for help and solve it yourself.” Because, get this kids, they hired me to make these decisions. So, I think now that I’m looking at 35, I should be old enough to accept the fact that I will make decisions that my students, my friends, my family and my partners won’t necessarily agree with. And that’s okay. Because although a good portion of these people are grown-ups, that doesn’t mean that they are any more right than I am. We just all hold our perspective from a different angle.

I think that being grown up means to stop stomping your feet, accept the fact that you might not have a full bandwagon the entire ride, and move on and make things happen, anyway.  This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take heed, advice, caution or listen to others. But it also means that it shouldn’t stop you in your tracks so you can work at seeking others’ approval instead of concentrating on what you’ve set out to explore and do in the first place. And maybe, when I accept the fact that I don’t need to seek approval yet learn how to constructively take in advice without faltering, I will be acting finally like a grown-up.

However, there are some things that I will never grow and move on from. I will, at times, probably still stick my face in a rye-boat dip. I will probably laugh so hard that I pee my pants.  I will still dance too much at weddings and snort out loud in church. I will probably act like a clown on demand just because, well sometimes, people just desire that sort of thing in life. i will still want my mother to kiss my forehead and tuck me in. And I will continue to love, to hug, to listen, to wipe tears away, to cry, to work hard, to learn and to…yes, you betcha, write it all down.

I’ve been blessed to have not just my parents raise me, but literally the whole fam-damily on Flynn Road. That means aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. I’m indeed fortunate for having amazing, loving role models. Perhaps that’s why I might work so hard now to please, only because in my eyes, they’ll always be the grown-ups, and I’ll always be the chubby kid who stuck her finger in birthday cakes for a lick of frosting or took 500 times to get up onto water skis or cried when I couldn’t get the trick of riding a bike for the first time. But  you know what? I did grow up; I lost my baby fat, I now know how to water and snow ski, and can ride my bike for miles along the Minuteman Trail. But most importantly, I understand that life is a continual learning process. And if you’re bandwagon ain’t driving straight, it’s guaranteed someone along the way will show you how.

Well, 35, I didn’t do too bad, afterall. So to all the men I’ve loved before…(just cause I’ve always wanted to say this, not necessarily because it fits exactly with the story)…who’s sorry now? And that goes for you, too, waiter in Harvard Square.

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn