“Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
- Jack Benny
I have never been afraid of growing old. Nor have I ever wished for time to stand still so I could stay young – probably because I’ve always found stillness far scarier than the passing of time.
What is so scary about getting old? Is it purely a point of aesthetics? Are wrinkles and white hair so terrifying? Or is it perhaps the fear of waking up one day and realizing that you have wasted the best years of your life? Is it the fear that, by the time you realize you want to do something, it might be too late for you to actually do it?
I can’t think of a single thing I’d like to do that I am too old for. That probably means that
a. I am completely deluded, or
b. my to-do list is boring and fitting to an old gal like myself.
Last week I turned 35.
For the longest time, my birthday celebrations have been intimate an understated; dare I say, they were barely celebrations at all. For years, it was nothing more than inviting my in-laws for coffee and cake, or going out for sushi with my husband and daughters. We’d have cake, I’d open my presents, that was it.
It wasn’t that I wanted to hide my birthday because I was self-conscious about my age; I simply didn’t feel it warranted a big celebration. I felt that focusing so much on celebrating yourself was far too self-absorbed for an adult, bordering on silly.
That changed recently, when a little epiphany about self-worth and self-esteem put things into a different perspective, and made me feel that I probably owed myself a little celebration.
The opportunity presented itself quickly enough, since my birthday was coming up. And not just any birthday, no – it was the big 3-5, my scary birthday, the one I saw as a cut-off of some sort, as if there was a gate between being young and being old, and on that gate was inscribed the number 35.
But really, aren’t things only as scary as we make them up to be? In this case, 35 was definitely a monster of my own making.
So to bring things back on track, back to my typical glass-half-full outlook – that only seems to falter when a birthday looms on the horizon – I decided to do something I hadn’t done in… ever, actually. I decided to throw myself a birthday party. That’s easier said than done when you are as neurotic a hostess as I am and when your house is never quite ready for guests because… well, let’s face it, household chores suck.
But once I had decided, off went the invitations, before I could find more excuses not to do it.
I still felt a little silly (probably conditioned by years of “why would I celebrate myself?”) and was pretty much scared s***less by the thought of entertaining 10-14 women in my apartment, but it was time. Time to confront my fears about entertaining, time to stop being so damn self-conscious all the time, time to do something for me.
The following two weeks were a little packed, so party prep had to be sneaked into the few time slots that weren’t already taken, but it worked out alright.
There were a couple of stumbles along the way, like sudden change in decor 4 days before due to fairly uncooperative weather; or a few failed attempts at replicating some fancy tissue paper decorations following deceivingly easy-sounding instructions on MarthaStewart.com; but in the end, in a moment of clarity, I opted for simple touches and tried-and-tested dishes that would save me from last-minute panic. Same with the goody bags: after changing my mind several times, I decided to keep it simple: colorful candy matching the decor and miniature lip gloss and nail polish bottles.
In the end, the party turned out far better than I expected or even imagined. There was a fun, relaxed atmosphere; the disparate group of friends I had assembled got along surprisingly well, and it was awesome to be surrounded by wonderful women who had chosen to spend time celebrating my formerly-scary milestone, who brought with them lovely gifts and thoughtful cards that had me crossing my fingers that my makeup was waterproof.
And when it was all done, I sat down with a glass of wine at the table that, though now clear of all dishes, just an hour before I had been sitting at with my friends, their unself-conscious laughs and easy chatter filling the room and making me feel very lucky, and very much glass-half-full (or closer to glass-filled-to-the-brim.)
And that’s when I realized that not only does the passing of time not scare me… I am actually grateful for it. Because it provides perspective. Because it helps you see what really matters, what you really care about, and what’s really not worth a second thought. Because it teaches you not to sweat the small stuff.
Because in the end, Adlai Stevenson was spot on when he said
“It is not the years in your life, but the life in your years that counts.”
Hear, hear!
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