There are some milestones you never expect to meet. The kind you look forward to like a really good fairy-tale, but don't assume will actually hold water in real life. Enigmatic marks of achievement that, truth be told, might be better anticipated than actually reached. One such milestone I recently hit head on: chalking up a 23rd year in the column of life.
Twenty three. As Blair Waldorf would say, O-M-G.
That's no longer a teenager. It's barely hanging on to the early 20s like someone clinging to a cliff's edge by their cuticles.
Old. Ancient.
Twenty. Three.
But before I began online shopping for time machine must-haves (a heat-proof body suit and biosafe goggles) I had to stop and wonder, was this really the end? Could there be life after 22? Or was I just freaking out on overdrive?
Was I simply the product of an age-obsessed society, or was it really time to pick up some anti-wrinkle cream and pre-order the Boniva?
A few days before D-Day, I was visiting some family for the weekend. Normally a high-spirits bunch, the group mood was dampened after news of a relative's medical troubles. Even so, there was no complaining. Board games and beach walks ensued, and wrapping up that Saturday evening I found myself munching on salt water taffy and sipping decaf in the kitchen with my Grandma. My sweet, lovely Grandma. The woman who taught me how to make my bed and fold down the top cover so it looks just like it should in a fancy hotel. The woman who I fondly named toast with butter AND jelly after before I was even tall enough to reach the toaster. The woman who taught me how to play Mexican Train Dominos, and who was with me at my first, fabulous introduction to New York City. So it was surprise, nay shock, I felt when, while discussing said relative's health woes, the six words I never thought I'd hear her say floated from between her lips so precisely, they only lasted an instant.
Yet their aftershock landed like a bomb:
"Life can be pretty shitty sometimes."
Grandma?
I knew she was right, and even the wizened and mature have to put it to you straight sometimes. But I laughed off the sentiment. Aphorisms make much more sense coming from someone who's battled acne within the last decade, right?
Days later - my actual date of birth - I received a call from a friend. I was at work when my cell began to vibrate, but it was my day, afterall. The one celebrating the ever-closing gap between me and the AARP.
So I stepped away from the newsroom and answered.
"Jen, it's me."
Of course, I know this, thanks to caller ID. But still I feign surprise. Oh! How wonderful of you to call and wish me Happy Birthday!
"I wanted to let you know, I just left the doctor's office. They think I might have cancer."
My brain went quiet as Chernobyl.
Cancer? That's not funny. Not at all.
A few days later, she called with more news. It was cancer. Lymphoma. Stage four.
How could this be? This was my friend, my 24-year-old friend. The person who introduced me to Freaks and Geeks, Firefly and the Flying Dutchman. The friend who first taught me the importance of a well-deserved, post-deadline beer. The one nerdy enough to spend an entire night on a Die Hard marathon and discuss every nuance of a Stephenie Meyers novel. A girl cool enough to label herself a nerd.
How could this be?
Six words: "Life can be pretty shitty sometimes."
Yes Grandma. Yes it can.
And I'd like to say that's when it hit me, but in reality I think it took a few days to sink in. Immediate or not, that proverbial hammer finally clunked me over the head.
This IS life. And morbid as it sounds, none of us - not a one - are getting out alive. So I can freak out about the creaks and creases of old age. I can obsess over Shaw's articulation of wasted youth. But when it comes down to it, age isn't a number of which to be embarrassed. Those numbers are marks of victory. Proof we were here. Every wrinkle or scar a badge of honor. Signs of laughter, scraped knees. Cancer survival.
Every age has its pros and cons, and the more I meet, the more that means I've experienced along the way. So this 23-year-old's Resolution #1? Chill. Because none of us are getting any younger, but we do have the chance to get older. And maybe, just maybe, that's not so bad.
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