Jen's Column / Birthday

I don't know how old I am. My birthday is tomorrow, and sometime in the last year I completely forgot which birthday it is.

I mean, I've figured it out now. But when I sat down to write this column 30 seconds ago, I thought, "I'll write about turning 38." And then, suddenly, I thought: "No, wait. Am I turning 38? Or is Jay turning 38? Am I 37? 36? How old am I?"

I couldn't remember — which is, maybe, one sign of my aging. I had to do the math: Let's see… born in 1971… which means I'm turning… 37.

Whew. I just gained a year.

My brain lapse could do with the fact that I lied about my age for years. But not in the way you'd think. When I was in my twenties, I had to spend a lot of time on the phone for my job — conducting interviews with article sources, verifying information with PR people, that kind of stuff.

Across the board, they'd get me on the phone and say: "You sound so young." (They'd also say, "Are you in Canada? You sound Canadian…" but that's another article — on the joys of being raised within spitting distance of the border.)

Anyway. I thought that if my colleagues thought I was young, they wouldn't take me seriously. So I started telling people that I was 30 — a much more mature and somber age, I thought. An age at which to be taken seriously.

I was 30 for nearly six years before I finally celebrated my 31st birthday. So you can understand why it would be hard to keep track. But, now, it turns out, I'm turning 37. Tomorrow.

So, how does it feel? Well, it's a lot closer to 40 than to 30. But I'm OK with that.
There was a time when I thought that as you got older, you automatically got stodgy. Grumpy. Dour.

But I have to say that I'm actually having more fun — am maybe even more adventurous — than I was in my 20s. I'm more secure, more confident, more… myself. I don't feel like I have to impress anyone anymore. I understand the importance of time for myself — and how unimportant a big house and a fancy car are. And I'm realizing with increasing confidence that laundry and housecleaning fall at the bottom of a very long list of priorities. (Well, actually, I've always felt that way… but it wasn't so much a worldview then as procrastination.)

This all sounds great, doesn't it? ("Woohoo! Aging is fun!") But there are definitely downsides — things I have to work on. For instance, I'm still not so secure that I don't get embarrassed when I'm caught jamming in my minivan. And, oh yah, I drive a minivan. Wouldn't have done that at 21. And sometimes I wonder if it's appropriate for a 38-year-old (oops! 37-year-old) to like Kid Rock as much as I do lately.

I always thought I'd have it more together, too, at this age. That I'd be officially grown up — you know, remembering everybody's birthdays and knowing how to make gracious introductions. But I never remember to send birthday cards and I usually forget my friend's name just as I'm about to introduce her to someone whose name I'm supposed to know but never have and now it's too late to ask.

And the hair. Oh, the hair. I was told once that hair thins as you age, but that was a lie. Hair is cropping up all over my body — but mostly on my face. What's up with that?

All in all, it's a fair trade. I can give up some things — a smooth face, a vehicle that doesn't seat seven — for the peace of mind and growing wisdom that age is delivering.

But really. Did it have to come with a mustache?