And if she is all grown up and posing for heart-achingly beautiful wedding photos, what does that make me?
Old, that's what. This is not the first of my old classmates to get married. It's only going to get worse from here, as more friends start getting married and pregnant and being promoted and buying houses...blegh.
But it isn't just that - the feeling that life is slipping past like water through my fingers, while I sit like a staid rock in the stream...growing moss. Or something. That metaphor derailed rapidly.
Nobody ever told me that twenty-one would be the age when everything starts to go downhill. My metabolism seems to have abruptly switched off, so that I now have to exercise if I don't want to swell into a great blob (which is actually a tougher decision than you might think). I've become more scatterbrained, staying up till the wee hours actually leaves me functioning at the level of an anesthetized sea slug the next day, and according to one commercial, my skin has already begun deteriorating into a wrinkly, transparent, sun-spotted mess. The only way I've really kept my youth is that I can hold my liquor better than a sailor on leave.* Which is something, when you're a tiny woman who drinks whiskey neat.
Nobody told me that I would peak once I reached a second decade, and that the remaining three-quarters of my life would devolve slowly, agonizingly, until I am at last decrepit and senile enough to have fun again. At a certain point, I think, I will stop caring about my health and respectability, and then I'll be able to party like a young whippersnapper once more.
|Get offa my lawn and outta my way.|
*Which is not really a saying, and, since I've never met a sailor on leave (much less shared a round with one), I really have no idea if that is a fair generalization to make about sailors.
Image by Jessica Claire, via her website; Book Making Blog.