Well, Crumb

Today, as I was riding the elevator at work, it occurred to me that in just over three months, I'll be thirty-seven years old.  And that freaked me out.  I certainly don't feel that old.  How old does thirty-seven feel, anyway?  But it got me thinking about the nature of labels.

I can no longer, even at the younger, thirty-six age, be considered a young lady.  The only reason I get carded anymore is because it's store policy or someone thinks that by doing so, they'll get a bigger tip.  (JSYK:  Doesn't work anymore, but I'll still thank you.)  I guess that I am now a "woman".  Someone to be listened to, if only because the growing lines on my face belie my fervent belief that I am still a silly youngster.

It's not so bad, you know, that initial respect I get because I don't look so young.  But it's strange.  I like to think that I earned it because of my experience and education (and to an extent I did), but I know it's because I'm clearly not a fresh-faced twenty-something anymore.

And you know what else?  There's a peace in it.  For now, anyway.  No guarantees on my reaction when I reach forty.