I hardly ever think about my age.
When you’re fifteen on the cusp of getting your driver’s license, or twenty on the brink of being allowed to order a glass of wine with dinner, age seems relevant. Those birthdays represent milestones in the form of new, mature responsibilities. When you’re getting ready to turn twenty-five and the only perk is finally being able to rent a car without paying an extra fee, it’s different. Some women start freaking out about inching closer to the big 3-0. Because near the big 3-0, some women start freaking out about finding a husband or facing potential fertility challenges or developing (gasp) wrinkles. Some women freak out every single year on their birthday when they realize they are one year closer to being old.
I’m not sure why I never freak out about my age. Maybe it’s because I’m the “baby” in my group of friends, or maybe it’s because my husband is 4.5 years older than me. Or maybe it’s because getting older is making me a better person, and I’d take that over a wrinkle-free face any day.
Because the older I get, the more comfortable I am in my own skin. The more I accept my body, my face, my blemishes and flaws. The older I get, the more confident and secure I become in who I am and who God wants me to be. The more I use my talents and gifts without shying away from what people might think. The older I get, the more selective I become in who I surround myself with and the types of friends I choose.
Yes, I’m getting older. But I think I’m also getting a tiny bit wiser. I care less about pleasing others and more about pleasing Him. I laugh more and cry less. I relax more and worry less. I spend less money on jeans and more on experiences that will create lasting memories. I’m getting a few wrinkles, but it’s okay because I’m pretty sure that means my face smiles a lot. The older I get, the more I appreciate my husband. My parents. My grandparents. My friends.
The older I get, the bigger I dream and the harder I love.
So, bring it on 25. I’m ready for you.
