An upside to removing “girl” from your moniker: you don’t feel as guilty about how “old” you’ve become.
And guys, I’m old.
In bed by 9:00 PM, even on Saturday nights
No, I’m not sending you a photo and if you don’t have anything interesting to say, I’m not returning this text
If I don’t walk at least six miles a week, my body parts start creaking
Not downloading any new social apps; whatever doesn’t make it to my Twitter or IG feeds isn’t meant to be seen
Retired from twerking and the best you’ll get from me at the function is a line dance and a two-step
Like the new rap girls but am fifteen years older than most of them, so I blast “W.A.P.” while cleaning my kitchen because I’m not getting dressed to go anywhere and why is your thirty-five-year-old ass so worried about these young girls’ business
And I’m okay with that.
After watching my peers trip over themselves to participate in “Hot Girl Summer” back in 2019, I decided to age gracefully. That I preferred the limits of “age-appropriateness” over clinging to youth in order to appear lively or attractive.
That was another mindfuck of being “Skinny Black Girl.” It was hard to reconcile the grown-ass woman in my head and in my mirror when I still identified as a “girl.” If I was going to embrace my age instead of trying to defy it, I had to embrace myself, as is—not as I used to be.
More pragmatic than hopeful. More discerning than open. More self-contained than expressive. With neither the energy nor desire to twist myself in knots over anything. Least of all to prove I’ve “still got it.”
Yes, I dye my grays (my tapered sides look cleaner when they’re all one color). No, I don’t plan on becoming a sedentary couch potato that doesn’t care how her clothes fit. Yes, I’m still open to new ideas and information. But I’m over the trying.
I am—quite literally—too old for that shit.