Every so often, a well-meaning twenty-five-year-old girl will tell me that I “don’t look thirty-four.” She is trying to be reassuring, waving away reality the way only a child can, trying to convince herself, myself, and God that time doesn’t exist.
It’s more about them than it is about me and whether or not I look my age. It used to bug me, but now I like it. In those moments, I can stand there and exist as living proof of life after twenty-nine.
I’m thinking about time and the respect it has for no one. Who we were then and are now. The ways we change and the ways we don’t. For the past year, I’ve been revisiting one of my old Livejournals, the only one still up. Created in 2006 and last updated sometime in 2013. I long to find my Deadjournal (knowers know) but I think that might be gone for good.
You might remember me from there.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to RC to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.