I am 41 years old. Not old, but perhaps on the downhill slope of my life.
I told myself I’m only as old as I feel. Turning 30 was nothing. Turning 40 was ok. To be honest, I’m in the happiest time of my life for many reasons. Life is good.
As happens frequently as of late, I’m getting hit by memories of my past. Funny how only the good memories surface. I suppose that’s a good thing, but it makes me long for “the good ol’ days,” even though I know those days weren’t as rosy as my memory makes them out to be.
Today I fell down a rabbit hole on Facebook. A woman from the neighborhood where I grew up posted an anniversary picture.
Another former neighbor commented and it struck me like a ton of bricks to read she was retired.
I dug a little deeper to see what the children from the old neighborhood were up to, but I didn’t find children. I found adults I no longer recognize. Adults with kids of their own.
Isn’t it funny how, in memories, time stands perfectly still. What makes my mind choose what time period to hold on to? And why, even though logic tells me that time marches on, does it shock me to see how time indeed marches on.
It marches much faster than I’d like. For the first time in my life, just as I finally reached a point of almost perfect joy, I feel like time is running out.
I’m not ready for that.