Tonight I am feeling a little closer to 30 than I am to 20. Technically, of course, numbers don't lie and I am, in fact, way closer to 30. Usually, though I would say that, on the inside, I'm a solid 24. I'm a grown up, but I still have that certain je ne sais quoi of a girl in her early twenties.
On Monday, a colleague asked me how old I am. I told her, with a straight face, that I was almost 28. It wasn't until I was home, many hours later, that I realized I had lied. I'm already 28, I have been for many months and 29 is looming on the horizon. Was that my first senior moment? I won't even discuss the abnormally large number of gray hairs that I've found in my hairbrush over the last few months. Life is looking more like 30 every day.
Tonight I am home wearing my favorite flannel pants (they are this lovely blue and yellow stripe and they have been my faithful companion for the last 10 years), and I am conflicted. The near thirty-something part of me is pleased. More than pleased, even, I am proud. I'm proud that I am a woman comfortable in who I am and content with my life. I embrace the fact that I like to sit in my pajamas on a Friday night, from time to time, bake and drink a nice glass of red wine. I've worked hard to get to this place of contentedness. I've spent countless hours turning my heart and my life over to God again and again. I have fought for the rest I find in placing my identity in him and not my social calendar. The twenty year old in me, however, is much more restless. I'm not ready to call it a night. I want to go on an adventure, try something new, meet interesting people and stay up way too late. I'm embarrassed to be found in my blue striped flannel.
I'm not sure what to do with the discord I feel. I guess, like any other reasonable adult, I'll have to embrace it. I'll continue to be glad for the last ten years I've spent growing, maturing, paying my own bills and learning to separate my laundry, but I'm not throwing out my pink lip gloss yet.