Thirty-Five Years and STILL Getting Older.

I'm 35 years old. It's true, people.

It's funny...I never think about aging as a painful process at all. Obviously, it happens to all of us. There is no shame in it, and frankly, there is nothing more annoying to me than people who will not divulge their age when queried. What's that about?

Despite that, just thinking about turning thirty-five this week feels pretty bizarre. I mean, how did THAT happen? It seems like yesterday I was this carefree guy skipping through art school lectures and late-night darkroom stints, drinking three dollar Guinness pints at Tuman's. Oh, wait! That was thirteen years ago! YIKES!

For me, it's not the fact that I am aging that disturbs, but more the boggling passage of time.

Every once in a while, I will catch myself telling a story as if it was current events, and then it hits me that it's more like ancient history! I would love to blame that on my mother, who is occasionally somewhat short on reference points in conversation, but I have to admit that I dig my own glorious holes where memories are concerned.

I have a stunning recollection of childhood, and can recollect memories from my youth that are so thick with minute details (smells, people, which Rolling Stones song was playing at any given moment). I am sure that if the CIA questioned me at length about those memories, some of my stories might not hold water, but I am pretty accurate at least.

It is adulthood where I get a little lost. Shall I blame all the recreational drugs in high school, or is my brain just simply filled with too much extraneous information to make accurate memories possible?

How did I get here? Wait...what are we talking about?

Oh, yeah...I'm getting older.

The other thing that's weird is that when I look in the mirror, I still see the same twelve-year-old boy I used to be (staring in the mirror). I often wonder if that is a survival mechanism we develop to deal with aging, or if it is just part of our introspective behavior. I know that I am looking at a thirty-five year old man in the mirror, but because I don't feel a day older than twelve, my brain cannot process the fact that I am evolving. It feels comforting to have that kind of disconnect, yet ridiculous all at once.

I am proud of the fact that I don't rely on anyone else's perception of me to define myself. I used to struggle with being self-conscious but have long since graduated from that phase. I don't try to look good or act a certain way for other people. It is way too taxing, and furthermore boring and counter-productive.

I am also grateful that, aside from my criminally thinning hair (which started at 20 years old), I don't really show too many signs of aging. YET. Every Spring though, I do realize that taking off the perennial 5-10 Winter pounds I gain becomes more and more of a chore! I also realize that staying-in (as opposed to going out) appeals to me more and more. Staying out until 3AM...are you nuts?!

However, I do FEEL my physical self getting older. My knees creak. I pop acid-reducers at regular intervals. I always feel like I have to pee. I am growing hair on the strangest parts of my body. I have a militant moisturizing regimen. The tell-tale signs of aging are mounting, and I just deal with them all one at a time. What else can one do?

What defines a person of thirty-five?

WHO KNOWS?

What I do know is that it is strange to think of myself as approaching middle-age. It doesn't disturb me enough to lie about my age (I would never do that), but letting the words "thirty-five" escape my mouth has surprised me a bit this year.

I'm sure I am not alone!