September 22, 2002.
Jimmy Choo Can Just Go Jump In a Lake For All I Care

One bright morning this summer, I woke up and I realized that I was officially Old.

Frankly, the aging process didn't happen like I expected it to. I expected a more gradual slide into decline — an ache and a creak here, a couple of extra pounds around the midsection. My fluffy coat slowly losing its glossy sheen. But no — instead, it happened in the twinkling of an eye. I looked in the mirror and found myself Old.

I looked back at my reflection, startled. It can't be denied. All of a sudden, I have taken what feels like a giant, horrifying step forward into the Land O' Maturity. What it was that tipped the scales?

Maybe it was turning 28. Maybe it was realizing that I think a lot more more about developing a savings fund for my parents' retirement than I do about what's happening on The Real World. Maybe it happened when I left my flashy, pretty, Italian-boot-shod stylist in the trendy Midtown beauty salon because I realized I just don't give a rat's ass about Bumble & Bumble styling products, or Jimmy Choo's fall line, or what Cameron Diaz wore to the Oscars.

Some parts of getting Old are welcome. This summer I traded in a couple of those deep, dark, back-of-the-closet CDs for more intelligent, upscale stuff, like Shawn Colvin and Van Morrisson. Look at me now, I'm Mature. I also discovered a stained, warped box of yellowing letters from old boyfriends from college days and discovered that those boys weren't quite the paragons of intellect and cleverness that I once believed them to be. (I discovered that I wasn't, either.)

On the morning of realizing that I was Old, I noticed a softening of the jawline (the beauty mags' fancy term for dumpy, baggy jowls). I saw that I am no longer permitted to stroll casually through the department store at the mall, and briefly consider a sheer print blouse in the Juniors department. Before, I would look at a completely ridiculous blouse, and think, yeah, I could still do that. Now, I can't. Rather, I won't.

Evenings this summer found me, lying awake in bed, carefully considering my mortality from every possible angle. And then reaching out, and finding Tom there, and asking him, "Hey, um, will you still love me in thirty years, when I am old, and blind as a bat, and I can't see enough to pour the milk on my fiber-rich breakfast cereal?"

"Yes. I will."

"Okay. Good."

Really, I don't think getting Old in itself is a bad thing. I think it's what you do with it that counts. I wonder if I may be entering a time of greater personal potential. Even as a young girl I have always been drawn to strong older women—their intelligence, their wisdom, their kindness that are all the products of years of making good decisions. I expect the days to make a little more sense in midlife. I expect to be clearer about who I am and what I need from life and what I want to give back. I anticipate becoming more generous and kind to the people in my life, including myself. I would like to become hard in all the right places, and soft in all the right places.

Here's to the next twenty-eight years. Heck, the next thirty years!