The 5am coffee.
It’s nearing the end of summer and the early daylight seems to be no more. The birds are chirping, and the morning commuters are starting to leave, but the sun has yet to come out of hiding.
It’s Wednesday and I think I am finally starting to feel semi-normal after our Boots and Hearts adventure. For those who don’t know, it’s a country music festival where you camp out and basically drink for the whole weekend. You can’t leave the grounds and the daily music doesn’t start until 2pm-ish. Was it fun? Absolutely. Would I do it again? Well, the whole weekend cost my husband and I about $1500 – so I think I’ll save my pennies for a Cuba trip next time.
But… what a time. People brought in couches and chairs, campers with bars built into them, trucks with stripper poles, dance parties in the roadways… and young people. Lots and lots of young people. Girls with tight bodies, unscathed by the marks of childbearing, and perky breasts untouched by several years of breastfeeding.
It hit me hard.
You see, I’m in this transitional period of my life where I no longer feel like a glowing, vibrant young lady. I feel like a mother. And nearly a mother to one of those young ladies. I am woman, but certainly not as young as I used to be. I felt out of place. I didn’t like the crowds. I didn’t like the constant noise. I longed for a campfire, and a cuddle with my kids.
These are your thirties.
This is a time when you swap out high heels and all night parties, for early to bed and sweatpants. And spend Friday nights mapping out monthly budgets, and do 6am Saturday mornings to beat the grocery shopping rush. No all day drinking, and no more perky tits.
And I’m not sure how I feel about it all yet.
For one: I do love an early night in, and sweatpants. But this body? I am struggling to find peace with it. Sure, I am growing more accepting of it. But there are some parts I cannot undo. Wrinkles in the corners of my eyes are forming. I see the creases in the morning as I scramble to put on a coat of mascara on before running out the door. Stretch marks. There for the rest of time. Linear reminders that I am a mother and I carried three sweet babes to full term, and birthed them through these wide, childbearing hips. My hair line is receding, my breasts sag and STILL produce milk (thankksssss horomones), and the bags under my eyes serve as a gentle reminder that I may finally sleep when I’m dead.
Ah, yes. This is the phase I am in. I look older, I feel older, and yet I’m not ready to grow up.
Perhaps you can relate?
Maybe you, too, are having trouble letting go of your youth and are trying to settle into this new role?
I like the peace that comes with your thirties. The routine of my daily commute, and the normal daily tasks I need to stay on top of. I like feeling needed and depended on by my children; soon enough they will grow up and I’ll be a roommate instead of their “mommy”.
But for now I’m learning to let go of the feeling of being desirable, and replacing it with being depended on.
After all, I’m just a thirty-something.