That Old

By Lisa D. Tossey

My facial cleanser best defines this stage of my life. “Anti-Wrinkle Anti-Blemish” it proclaims, promising to bring the art of multitasking to my face. As I’m barreling toward 30, I put faith in its properties, hoping both to end the pesky breakouts of my twenties and prevent the fine lines that mark the passage of time.

I hadn’t considered my age much until last summer. When I turned 21, I felt I had passed all the milestones. After all, I could drive, vote and drink legally. Birthdays came and went: 22, 23, 24 - I coasted along, feeling like a bona-fide adult, secure in the knowledge that I was still in my prime.

Then I decided to tackle graduate school. I filled out applications, weighed my options and before I knew it, I was walking into a classroom in June. Suddenly I found myself struggling to get back in the groove of learning. Early mornings, lengthy exams, papers on theory - soon I was propping myself up with shots of coffee and mapping out my days so I could pencil in restorative naps.

Twenty-nine snuck up on me in the middle of a chaotic August. BAM! It hit, and I found myself on the doorstep of 30. Thirty - a landmark age I had always expected to face under different circumstances. I was supposed to be a lot of things I’m not: married, settled, entrenched in a career, contemplating children.

The reality of it was exasperated by being back in school, in the center of a sprawling campus full of tan, belly-baring coeds, whom I now realized were junior to me by a decade (a decade!). At first, I was pleased when others expressed surprise at my age. I blended in - I looked youthful! Then, an impromptu conversation with another student in the gym locker room served as a reality check.

As I changed into workout clothes, our chat wandered through various topics: running shoes, padlocks, tattoos. As I laced up my shoes, I casually mentioned my age. In my peripheral vision, I saw her head snap in my direction.

“You’re that old?” she asked.

I let those words hang between us, contemplating them.

I managed a “Yup!” and bolted before she could examine me closer for tell-tale signs of being “that old.” Those two words lodged in my brain as I climbed aboard an exercise bike.

What does it mean to be 29? What does it say about me, being “that old” and in school? I pedaled over imaginary hills, mulling those questions while climbing steep slopes that existed only as glowing blips on a digital screen.

Twenty-nine means that I’ve had time to travel - to visit ancestral haunts in Wales and tranquil temples in Japan, to camp in the Grand Canyon and gallop on horseback across New Zealand.

Twenty-nine means that I’ve had time to try on different hats: a stint in veterinary school and four years as a flight attendant. It's allowed me to feel the adrenaline rush of being part of the dot-com phenomenon and the disappointment of unemployment when the Internet bubble burst.

As I coasted down the final phantom hill of my workout, I realized that 29 means I’ve had the time to work out what I want to be when I grow up. I may be “that old,” but I finally have direction. A purpose. I am in school to prep for 30 - to hone my skills for the career that has taken me 29 years to discover is a great match for my interests.

I climbed off the bike and marched back down to the locker-room: 29, mature, full of purpose. I glowed with inner-confidence, but still needed to wash my face. I may be a radiant 29, but it doesn’t hurt to fight those laugh lines.