I turned 33 a few days ago. And the number seemed alien to me.
I see around me at work everyday, a bunch of 20 somethings – early 20’s – ‘kids’. I see their dreams, their aspirations, their attitudes, their hopes and their everydays.
I felt ‘older’ and jaded in comparison. Tired. Weary.
And at times, graciously wiser ;)
In the last 4 years, my world has been turned inside out, upside down.
From a size 28 waist, I went to size 38. I put on 15 kgs, and lost control of my body, and life. Every few months these last 4 years, I’ve been a different size and shape and weight. It’s been terrible for my wardrobe. And for my self image.
I’ve experienced the glamour and the pains of a start up. I was a SAHM for 6 months. And I went back to being a working mother, a techie one at that.
I lost myself in being a mother. I lost myself in being a caretaker and a bread earner. And I hated it. I hated the person I’d become. Mechanised. Lost. Cynical. Weary.
This year, at 33, I’ve been making the journey back. Back to being me. It’s been a slow process. But I see the changes. And there’s more that I’m looking forward to.
I like this phase, the thirties. Its a good age to be.
Over the last few weeks, I find that I grow more comfortable with myself. Much more surer of myself. And more in love with life. In all its colors – the greys and browns along with the entire rainbow in between.
I’m 33. But also somewhere inside me, I’m 28. And 22. And 18. And 10.
I’m all those persons. All those ages. More than I’ve even been before. And I’m loving it.