I'm {Not} Feeling 22

“You know what I heard on John Tesh the other day…”

Agh! When did this happen? When did people in my life start to reference John Tesh in every day convo? Did I somehow get sucked into a time vortex? To a land where whatever John Tesh had to say somehow relates to your discussion. I mean, why not just throw a little Kenny G. into the mix?

Sometimes, I still think I’m 22. And then, I hear songs by Taylor Swift and realize I. AM. NOT. And sometimes, that makes me feel lame. Because 22, well, it was a good time. And at 22, 32 seemed darn near elderly. Not like, get out my granny panties and call it a day… But just… Not 22. 

Outside of the day of my birth having passed 33 times, there are more and more signs, daily, that I am no longer a carefree young coed. But instead, a 32 year old mother of three. A mature, responsible, woman… mmm k… that might be a stretch.

Like this morning, when I woke up feeling as though I’d been beat up and left for dead in an alley after trying out tubing this weekend for the first time in a few summers.
Or the fact that this weekend I had one adult bevi and had near narcoleptic tendencies.
And then there’s the whole thing where I have milk that spurts out of my bossom. Nothing makes you feel more mature than the ability to have a grocery store in your bra.
I also find that when I hear songs like Let me take a selfie I think, so this is music now?
I don’t own one single headband that adorns my forehead.  
And I don’t have any shredded tank tops that show off my belly button ring. In fact, I only have a scar that once held a belly button ring.
Gone are the days of sleeping until 11 am {oh… those were sweet sweet days}. I now consider an 8 am wake-up as sleeping in.
And as for staying up late, right now, if the clock strikes 11 pm and my little head hasn’t hit the pillow, you might as well prepare for the apocalypse.
The only thing I drink out of a huge jug is water.
I no longer cruise around in a dodge neon but rather a family SUV complete with three car seats and Kids Place Live on the radio.
I now wear sunscreen. Lots of it. And it’s 70.
I have three children. THREE. Holy buckets.

I own Birkenstocks. And not because they are apparently “back” but rather because I really dig the orthotic support. Only half joking on that one. 

I really like House Hunters. And the show Parenthood. And I think MTV was better when it played music videos and the real Real World. 

My makeup routine takes about 3 minutes. And my hair takes about double that. Ain’t no one got time for high maintenance right now. 

So ya. My sore body is not 22. And it just won’t ever be again. And that’s okay. And my 32 year old self is very much mom. And that’s okay, too. Because, the jig is up, folks… I kinda prefer it. There’s some good that comes with being 32.

I know how to handle my finances. And living paycheck to paycheck is a thing of the past.

I also know how to handle my liquor {on most occasions}. 
I have one constant boyfriend. And I don’t let how much he likes me determine my mood. Because he’s always nice to me.
I now wear sunscreen. Lots of it. And it’s 70.
I have friends. The real ones who get me. And who require very little maintenance. The ones who I made when I was 16, 18, and 22. 
And I get to have three children. And get to spend my time with them. Holy Buckets.
I wear what I wanna wear cause I like it and it flatters my shape. Not because it’s the hip, cool trend.

I now make my bed every day. And even hang up my clothes most of the time. As such, my room no longer looks like I’m living in squalor. 

I don’t have to stress over taking tests. Except pregnancy ones. Or those Buzzfeed ditties. 

I eat. And I eat normal healthy foods. Not chips and cheese or cereal for every meal. Or ramen noodles. Or papa johns pizza with that garlic sauce… Okay… That stuff was all delicious. And I might just eat it all for dinner. Tonight. 

I work out because of how it makes me feel, not simply because of how it makes me look. Endorphins are my BFF. 

Being with my family and friends is pretty much my favorite. I’d take that over spending my time at a crazy house party with a bunch of people I’ll never ever see again in my life. Crazy parties are still fun. Just not as fulfilling. 

And I can blog about my life without fearing that what I write will tank my career someday. Because it’s all pretty G rated.

So 32. I kinda love you. I guess you’re not that lame. Except for the sleeping in thing. That’s never okay.

What do you like better about your current age than any other?