I’ve been pondering a lot about age and maturing ever since I turned 30 last year. I didn’t want it to be significant, and I certainly didn’t want it to become a turning point for worrying about getting old.
But I have definitely become more age conscious.
The odd grey hair I found when I was 29 didn’t bother me after the initial shock, the beginnings of fine lines around my eyes were neither here nor there. Because I was still in my twenties; in my head, I was still young. Now, it feels more significant. My hair is only going to get grey-er, wrinkles will only get more pronounced, my memory and eye-sight will get worse.
I’m getting older. As I have every day since I was born. Except now I’ve truly appreciated that there’s a time constraint at work.
Ah, the blissful ignorance of youth!
I am not the same person I was fifteen years ago. Or even five years ago.
Whilst my physical self may now be past its peak (gosh, that’s a depressing thought, didn’t quite realise that until I typed it), my psyche has just started to grow.
[This sounds a bit new-agey, but bear with me here]
I am a much more tolerant person, I am beginning to appreciate that we are not all singing the same song, and thank goodness for that. I’m not claiming to have improved on my patience yet, but I have hope.
When I was 18 the world was black and white.
Now, I’m nearly 31 and I’m starting to realise there are more shades of grey than we will ever be able to see.
I am a better person. I am definitely a nicer person. I think it’s fair to say I am mellowing. I am happier in my own skin, even if it’s not quite as taut as it was before. I’ve rediscovered learning, and I absolutely thrive on it.
I am content with my life; I am still aspirational, but I know that having a better car, more holidays or fancy clothes won’t make my life more enjoyable, just more aesthetically pleasing, which is nice but not necessary.
I quite like this growing-up thing. And I know for a fact that those around me do too.