And if you've ever had the misfortune of driving behind me, you're already aware of this little known fact. But I'm okay with it (usually and most of the time).
I'm sharing this because recently, I worked with a nurse whom I'd never met before. In making general chit-chat and exchanging pleasantries, the subject of children came up. I knew what was coming when I shared with her that I had one daughter. "How old", she asks. I pause in order to put on my "Go ahead...I know what's coming next" face and softly and proudly say "27". She, in turn, gives me the perfunctory pause as I can see her attempting the math in her head. "How old ARE you?!". "What, were you twelve when you had her?!". I share my age with my new co-worker and suddenly our conversation shifts.
Apparently, "Monica" will be turning 40 in a few short weeks and is stressing terribly over it. She asked me my opinion on being in my 40's. Wanted to know if I suffered any deep depression when I hit the big 4-0. As I thought carefully about my response, I looked her squarely in the face and said, "I am finally happy with being me. I'm a little like some others. But mostly I'm just me".
I'm okay with my crooked smile and slightly too-large nose. I mean, when I look in the mirror I see the female version of my father and what could be better than that? And while my hips are a little larger than I'd like, I'm not willing to take on an eating disorder or hope for a terminal illness in order to slim myself down.
And as I set off 3 days a week for a rejuvenating run, yeah, I feel my butt jiggle. But only in the beginning. After a few hundred yards, I picture myself long, lean and sculpted and press on and never give my cellulite another thought.
...until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I'm getting ready for bed...
Will 50 bring absolute certainty?