Age.

Aging is a funny thing. It happens when you aren't really looking. So much of our habits and perspectives are based on what part we are at in our lives. I never thought much about it until recently, when I realized that truly, I am getting older.

There are certain "great" ages, and some not so great. For awhile there, I was stuck at 18. Years 19 and 20 were blurry because while I can do so much more as a person, I was not 21. Couldn't drink, party, whatever. Not that I necessarily wanted to; it was more about having the choice of. Then I was happily 24. It was a good age because I was legitimate for the first time as an adult, no longer in school and with a decent 2+ years of work experience behind me. I lingered for a bit at 26, only because it seemed better than 25, and I had a solid career with a great relationship. Unfortunately, my life should have more purpose, says my dad, who likes to remind me that all of his sisters had atleast one child by the age of 20. My mother chimes in that she had me when she was 25. Not a chance in hell, I always shoot back.

27 has been hugely memorable because of so many things: the mind-blowing success of my job, becoming someone's fiancee with a wedding to plan, the conclusion of my job, not to mention traveling, friends with weddings & babies...I've probably been operating on adrenaline and emotions for the last 11 months.

27 has also memorable because it's the first time that my age has shown. Nothing stings more than the first time you are referred to as "ma'am". Or when you walk down the street and wonder "what is wrong with these kids who don't dress appropriately for the weather", or "why are they so sloppy?"

I have been repeatedly "ma'am"ed in the last two months. The first time was at a White Sox game. I was eating an ice cream sundae on the Club Level and I heard someone say, "Ma'am? Ma'am?" I'm not really paying attention because I know it can't possibly be someone talking to me. Then I got tapped in the shoulder. The kid sitting next to me wanted to know where I got the ice cream. I almost didn't answer him because I was in shock. The other times have been at stores, be it at a pharmacy or standing in line for books -- it's "ma'am" this, and "ma'am" that. Consider me officially scared.

The other day I took a good look in the mirror and noticed my face seemed different. My cheeks were not as puffy, more refined. My eyes and nose, which I used to hate because they seemed so tiny and inconsequential appeared distinct, like they were finally right. It was me, and yet it didn't seem like me. I wasn't sure how to feel about it. Days later, when I caught myself in the mirror again, I saw myself and decided that I was fine with it. I wouldn't trade away the lessons I've learned and the confidence I have now for a few less fine lines or to look a couple years younger. The bottomline is, age happens. It's the people who let it get them down or make them paranoid that suffer the most; those people who are the advertiser's dream consumer: people who love to buy products being hawked by the people of "mature age" on television and in magazines, so certain we need more hair, less hair, to cleans/purify/exfoliate/massage -- do whatever it takes to turn.

Don't get me wrong, it still gets me a little that there are people out there who see me as old. I feel this a lot when I am walking around downtown among my fellow students at the university. But it's true, I have had more worldy experience than them, and they in turn look young in my eyes. And that's fine.