Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

                                                                                                                                                +1 for the Aaliyah reference. 

                                                                                                                                              +1 for the Aaliyah reference. 

I remember being a teenager and thinking 30 was old.


I used to seriously think 30 was middle-aged.

I even thought all women entered menopause as soon as they hit 40. You’d think with as religiously as I watched shows like The Golden Girls, Designing Women and everything else Lifetime re-ran, I’d know better. But I didn’t. 30 was old.

Did I mention I’m turning 28 next month?

                          Don't think about it. Don't think about it... thinks about it.

                        Don't think about it. Don't think about it... thinks about it.

Obviously, my opinion has changed.Given the seemingly endless posts of jaw dropping Black women looking like they just graduated college as they apply for AARP, I feel a lot better about aging. Not that I’ll look anything like them. I love take-out and carbs too much. But even when I look at the women in my own family, the thought of getting older doesn’t terrify me.

As much.

And it’s not just the aesthetics. I figure with all the shit Black people go through, the least we could be gifted with is the ability to look eternally youthful. But I’m finding as I get older that I don’t care about a lot of the things I used to 5-10 years ago. I don’t care about rocking designer handbags or the hottest outfit. Fashion Nova, be damned. And for as timid, quiet and painfully shy as I used to be, I’m not as afraid to speak up and stand up for myself.

I’m still quiet, but y’know, introversion is real. (I’m not a bitch, I promise).

And the one thing that I’m noticing more than ever is that my tolerance for bullshit has dramatically decreased. Juggling the societal pressures about marriage, babies & being a "boss bitch" while also struggling to find a niche to scratch my eternal creative itch, I've got enough on my plate. Period.


Don't get me wrong. 

I’m not a revolutionary or anything. This mostly applies to jackasses on the train who like to stroll in front of you seconds before the doors open thinking they can take your spot. Or that friend of a friend of a friend always asking for a favor. But it feels good to tell some asshole who refuses to hold onto his bike on the train to shove it, or to give that face to someone who asks for something ridiculous.

And it feels damn good to still be confused for an early twenty-something as you're knocking on 30.

Taja Caprice2 Comments