Middle Ages

On my 16th birthday, in a quiet moment, my mom looked at me as only a mom can, smiled sort of enviously, and said, “I may be 38, but I still feel like I’m 16 years old inside.”

Of course I thought she was nuts.

Back then, I had some crazy notion about what my life would be like when I got older, the “things” I would acquire, the obvious fame and fortune I would be immersed in, the slow hardening of my physical abilities and how, by age 38, I would never, EVER, feel like I was 16 inside.

Huh.

Well, now I’ve seen 38 in my rear view, and…yep…inside I still feel like I'm 16. (Damn. Mom was right. And hells yeah! Moms are right!)

Yesterday was my Birthday of An Unmentionable And Unremarkable Age. I was treated to breakfast in bed, presents in bed, dinner out, and scores of kisses and hugs and “Happy Birthday Mom!”s It was all wonderful and sweet and memorable.

The 16-year old in me, however, still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. Is still a teeny bit scared of the dark. Still gets pimples. Is still shy about speaking to grownups. And still feels that tickly burning in her breastbone at what wonderful things might happen in her life. I hope she stays inside me for a long, long time.