I’ve noticed lately that I am encroaching on “soccer mom” status. My kids aren’t yet involved in out-of-the-home activities that have me playing the part of chauffeur but for all other intents and purposes (married, middle-class, suburban mother of three) I fit the bill.
Growing up I remember adults approaching thirty make comments about how they still felt twenty. Now I am one of those adults. Ignoring the fact that I have a four year old I would swear I still was twenty.
But alas it has become clear to me in recent days that I am not twenty. Or twenty-one. Or even twenty-five.
It first happened as I dropped off a load at D.I. the other day. A sharp looking young man came out to help collect my rejected belongings. (The fact that I used the word “sharp” to describe a “young man” is evidence enough, no?) I felt so hip because as I popped the trunk I knew he could hear that I was listening to Beyonce. I like Beyonce. I listen to her to feel young and hip. But then as I drove away it occurred to me: “Jo, who are you kidding? You are driving a minivan.”
My other problem is that either because I am too busy or I don’t like what I see, I rarely take the opportunity to look in the mirror. I suppose most of my efforts go to making sure my children look decent. Sadly though, I have frequently left the house without make-up because of this. And the other day a friend came by to drop something off and I had chocolate cake mix on my nose.
It had been hours since I baked the chocolate cake.
I guess approaching thirty is like going bald. You just have to embrace it. Don’t endure it, love it. Glory in maturity. Live it up before you turn 40. (Heaven forbid!)
Oh, and did I mention I am actually only turning 28?