Does This Mean I’m A Grown-Up?

I’m not a Birthday Girl. Well, I guess technically that’s not true because I recently had a birthday that most people would have at least acknowledged to their closest friends. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was gratefully celebrated and indulged by the few who know when my birthday falls. It was lovely and I was spoiled rotten. But I’m not a Birthday Girl, in that I don’t much care for attention to begin with, let alone getting it simply for being born. I’m content for “my” day to subtly come and go each year under the radar of even some of my besties; let’s just say I’m good at avoiding hoopla. Mind you, my hesitation in disclosing my birth date has zero to do with announcing my age; I couldn’t care less who knows that I turned 50. See? I just shared my new half-centurion status with you and the rest of the world. I’m 50! Who cares, it’s just a number. Or at least, to me, that’s just what it always has been.

My age has never dictated how I’ve looked, felt, or acted (sorry about my ’20’s, guys. Come to think of it, for my early ’30’s too). Over the years I’ve done life, sometimes brilliantly, often incredibly stupidly, but mostly living in the ups and downs of the day to day. I’ve raised some kids, seen some sights, tried to stay fit, and paired the wine accordingly. I’ve passed the milestones – 20, 30, 40 – and not thought much about the years-turned-into-decades. That was until this summer. I was obliviously approaching the end of my ’40’s, when I literally came face to face with a hit-you-over-the-head discovery that made me wonder: As I’d passed through years changing diapers, coordinating playdates, carpooling, sitting on sidelines, and doing college tours, had I inadvertently become a grown-up?

I’d always envisioned my grown-up self walking around in a smart pant suit. I’m not talking about the kind of roomy, amorphous pant suit made ubiquitous by certain female politicians who may or may not share my name, but a perfectly tailored one made from only the finest virgin wool (never mind I’m allergic), statement buttons (because I’m a complete sucker for a chunky button), and a form-flattering waistline. My hair would be effortlessly styled and always look fresh (read: clean). I’d be carrying a beautiful leather briefcase, and would stroll through my days in low, understated heels. Not that I had any idea where I was going to be wearing this couture pant suit, nor what was going to be inside that gorgeous Italian attaché. It wasn’t going to be filled with spreadsheets any more than it was going to be filled with important legal documents; back in the day I couldn’t balance a check book let alone tell you what a spreadsheet even was, and I had chickened out of law school before I ever sent in a single application. That vision of having “made it” pretty much never moved past the reality that I’ve wandered through most of my life in spandex and a pony tail.

And then, there I was, on a hot day this August, on the back patio as I finished an online pilates class. On cue I moved into a down dog position. I pressed my palms down into my red yoga mat and my heels towards the white tile. I closed my eyes, tilted my seat up to the sun, and pushed my chest towards my thighs. As my nose got close enough to smell the sunblock on my bare legs, I opened my eyes and couldn’t believe what I saw. There they were, smack dab in front of my upside down face: my grandmother’s knees. As I peddled my heels and watched my tanned, tissue-like skin shift with each movement, I was enthralled; the scars were mine, but the rest was hers. And while the absolute honour of sporting the joints of my favourite grown-up in the entire universe wasn’t lost on me in that moment (or since), Holy Smokes! I didn’t see that coming. My grandmother’s knees are gorgeous, if only to me. Their wrinkles stack haphazardly on top of dimpled kneecaps and flood me with wonderful memories each time I look at them. Seeing them on my own body was at once a shock as much as it still is a marvel. Who knew that as I logged the hours and years in that carpool line, sitting on those sidelines, making dinners and doing laundry and just being my Hillary self, all the while my knees were hiding under that stinkin’ spandex, slowly crinkling and, dare I say, becoming pretty dang grown-up.

Do my new favourite accessories and 50 year old body oblige me to act or feel more grown-up? Heck no. Ask my family how grown-up I seem on a Saturday night when I’m trying to convince them it’s a great idea to open another bottle and start a movie at 2 a.m. I love myself some general debauchery. At the same time, though, I’m prone to tearing a hamstring simply walking into the ocean (true story) or herniating a disc without even knowing how it happened (also true, but it was actually 2 discs. I don’t want to come off as an over-achiever). I have no plans to change the Hillary I’ve always been; I wouldn’t even know how to start. I’ll keep wearing my spandex, keep throwing my hair into a pony tail, continue getting down to the business of living, and I may or may not always show up with appropriate footwear. I will inevitably look more and more the part as birthdays continue to pass quietly, but, let’s be honest. I’ll probably never sport that grown-up pant suit. Truth be told, I never liked pant suits that much anyway.