Mirrors are not our friends

Okay, so occasionally, I like a mirror. Like if I feel like putting make-up on, or when I brush my hair, so I don't hear my mother's voice in my head saying: "Brush your hair, people will think you're an orphan."

Today, however, I noticed something in the mirror I never had before: the beginnings of CROWS FEET. Of course, I was smiling when I saw them, so I chalked them up to laugh lines. Then I relaxed my face, and they were STILL THERE!!

My mom turned 30 when I was 4, so I have little memory of just what it was she looked like. I can tell you this: I don't remember her looking old when I was tiny.

When I was in 8th grade, one of the possible electives was walking over to the elementary school we shared a field with, and TA-ing in one of the classrooms. I couldn't have been more than 13 when I was walking with a friend one day. We were discussing my great-great-aunt who had just passed away at 93 years old. (This is how the memory goes. If the math is wrong, blame it on my soon-to-be advanced years.) I remember thinking that to live to 93 would be quite the undertaking, and what would one even do with all that time.

Then I tried to think about doubling my life, and making it to 30. The thought was almost unfathomable. It's sort of like the flying cars we were promised. That's never going to happen. Or like the year 2015. Like that's a real year. I could just not imagine making it to 30. Or, if I did, I wouldn't be where I am now. I had plans, goals, things to accomplish.

Sure, I've done some of them. I have a degree, a career, and I've seen some pretty cool stuff. But I'm sleeping in a rented bed, in a rented house, far, far from Washington. And I'm sleeping here alone.