Aging is not that scary. I am not worried about turning thirty. I don’t mind little lines on my face. I think in my head I thought thirty looked a lot older. I don’t know what it was meant to look like but it didn’t look like this. This isn’t so bad. I still get pimples which quiet frankly I am confused about, you get old but at least the pimples have stopped--that was what was promised,but no, they keep coming, I mean maybe if I actually took my make-up off at night and cleaned my face in the morning like an actual grown up things would be easier. Well, I could do these things, or simply accept the fact that my face will always be slightly blemished. Aging for me is not scary because of what my body is becoming. I mean it is slightly annoying that I have to watch how much I drink not only because of the hangovers that insist on getting worse and worse which I’m sure is not a surprise to anyone but also that the calories insist on hanging around permanently after every major night. I mean, it’s like they found a home and now they’re nesting. And now I have the imagine of little things nesting in my body and now I’m moving on….
But… I can’t.
To me moving, changing, evolving isn’t the scary thing. The scary thing is being stagnate. It’s sitting down one day and staying there. The cushion beneath your arse compressing and squishing—caving. It’s the dust slowly snowing down and settling on your frozen form. It’s not the Havisham complex, it’s not that someone burnt you, scarred you so badly it sent you off the rails, and you refused to ever go outside. It’s that you go outside, you live your ‘life’, you go about your day but all the while you’re in the Matrix. Your body is moving but at the same time it’s not. It’s still sitting, in that chair. The cobwebs accumulating.
Each problem in life tries to press itself into your bones and muscles, stiffening and knotting. Each problem reminding you that a part of your life is falling apart. Aging isn’t scary. It’s time.