Nick and I have been together most of my adult life, and he is six years older than me. I’ve always mentally split the difference between our ages. I was only 25 when we got married, but “we” were 28. I got pregnant at 28, but we were already in our 30s. Nick was fine to go back to school at 31 because we were but 28 still. But was I too old to change careers at 31? Nick and I were collectively 34 already. But guess what? Thirty-four isn’t too old for anything, except staying in hostels or drinking skim milk. Neither is 31. I did it anyway. The older I get, the more I realize that when I was too old to do things, I was actually the youngest person ever invented.
There was someone in my circle of friends who was 29 when I was 20. He still had a punk rock affect: long greasy hair, plentiful tattoos so established that they fuzzed at the borders already. But he also had good health insurance and had purchased a late-model car. I both admired him and assumed his life was basically over. Also why was he hanging out with us? We were cool, but also scum. I was embarrassed to be 20 in the presence of someone who was 29. I assumed that when he turned 30, he would turn to vapor or at least stop hanging out with us. Thirty, now that’s old.
Nick was relieved to turn 30. He’d felt 30 since he was 16. When I turned 30, all of my friends were already in their thirties. I had a Master’s degree and a baby. I no longer hated myself but I was blissfully disabused of the notion that I was a brilliant genius. It was a relief. My already thin face was more drawn than ever. My face was eating my lips and I had varicose veins. I barely cared. Was this power?
The class of ‘98 is turning 40 this year. First Becca, then Jason, then Erin. It’ll be Nick next June. Once again, he feels relieved. Nick has always been the Buddha, which is part of the reason I attached myself to him so young and never let go. Why would you let go of a Xanax-diffuser in human form, who, on your worst day, still thinks you’re Venus emerging from the sea?
Sometimes I think about having another kid. I can’t tell if it’s just a thought exercise yet, a grief about losing a ribbon of my vitality, a door of my self closing shut forever. I worry that Nick is too old for that. Sure, “we’re” only 36, but collective age is not real. There is just our actual age, and we only share a decade for four years out of the ten. Does he want to be 41, 42, 43 and doing this all again? Waking at night, wiping poop out of doll-sized vulvae? You can see that I’ve already decided that 40 is old, nearly vapor, which it’s not. I’ll know that soon, when I’m 40 and exactly the same, only better.
yr mate,
Evie
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