That was my first thought when I woke up this morning. For half a second, I considered rolling out of bed to grab my notebook, but I knew what would spill out on the pages and fifteen extra minutes in my bed felt better than confronting the inconvenient, gnawing truth.
I don’t want to be pressed about anything — least of all worrying if I’ve still got “it.”
I am not a young person.
Your instinct is to gasp. To launch into litanies about how much life I have to live and that I’m only as old as I feel and that 38 is the new 28 and all the other platitudes that make women feel better about aging and I’m going to stop you right there.
I did not call myself an “old” person. I said I’m not young.
As I observe my peers contemplating age and self-expression, I see the struggle. Letting go of youth means you’re old. Submitting to a sad life of mom jeans and sensible shoes or acting out a real-life Saturday Night Live sketch about old bitches in the club.