The Prime of Ms. Amy Overbay

When I picked Ginny up from preschool on Friday, I could see that the class had been winding up their “community helpers” unit (formerly known as ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’— I guess there’s now a socialist tinge to the time-honored question). On the wall was a big sheet of poster paper listing what each kid wanted to do as an adult. Some responses were predictable-—most of the boys wanted to be a fireman or police officer. The girls’ responses had more variety. Sierra wanted to be a daddy, Taylor wanted to be an ice cream store, Ginny wanted to be an artist.

Then, on the drive home, Ginny asked an important question: how old is an adult? How old are YOU, mommy? I told her—I’m 34. Her brow furrowed, her best version of mommy’s “icky face.” She shook her head, upset. “But Mommy, I told Ms. Jennifer that you are 40. We had to write it down in our book about what we want to do when we’re grownups like our mommies and daddies.” Gasp! Whaaaaa?! You told your teacher I’m 40, and she wrote it down in an official childhood memento? She BELIEVED I was 40?

Now I’m depressed. I feel that I have passed the physiological version of Peak Oil. I start thinking of all the signs that should have warned me something like this was coming. 1) I have not been carded recently, except by the very very geriatric lady in the checkout line at Harris Teeter, where the policy states that if you look YOUNGER THAN 40 they are SUPPOSED TO CHECK. 2) Even marginally hot guys have not been surreptitiously checking me out (although in truth there are few guys of any description at the places I hang out—Moms N Tots playgroup, the library, the grocery store. I guess that’s a bad sign too.) 3) People used to ask if I was sick when I showed up at places dressed in my ordinary clothes. (Ok, they DO often double as pajamas, but given my social itinerary, that’s ok, right?) They don’t ask if I’m sick anymore.

To make myself even more depressed, I pore over pictures of myself from college, noticing the differences. Then: hair blown-dry, sleek, shiny. Now: Do I own a hairbrush? It's not clear. Then: Makeup, shamekup. Now: No undereye concealer=victim of domestic abuse.

Next, to make myself feel even worse, I think about all the left-handed compliments (the most honest kind, right?) that I’ve ever received about my looks:

-You look a lot better when you wear your glasses. They cover up your face (from a fellow 15-year old.)
-Your hair looks a whole lot better now (from my husband, after any and all haircuts.)
-I think you’re just the kind of girl who is not going to peak in high school (from Jason Albright, age 16, the kindest boy I knew at the time, bless him.)

Tonight, just before I popped in a Morrisey/Cure compilation to really complete my wholehearted wallow in the excesses of self-pity, I’m lying beside my daughter, just before she goes to sleep. Wrongly, I know, I ask her again: “How old did you tell Ms. Jennifer I was?” I can see her little face, eyes closed in the almost-darkness. “I told you, Mommy. I said you were 40.” I persist. “But why did you think I was 40?” Ginny sighs, rolling over onto her back. “Because I know that Colin (neighbor boy) is 13, and you are older than that. Forty is more than that. You showed me on the number line.” Hope springs up—“Wait, Ginny, did you mean 14?” Ginny looks at me, shaking her head. She is now annoyed. Like her mother, she does not like to be wrong. “Yes, I mean 14. But 34 is more than that, so I was wrong about that too.” She closes her eyes. She goes to sleep.

Oh.

I wish I could say that I am laughing at my shallow narcissistic reflections of the previous two days. I wish I could say that you’re as young as you feel, because, except for the chronic sleep-deprivation, I feel pretty good. Because the truth is, one day I will be 40. God willing, one day I will be 50, 60, 70, or more. I hope that one day I will be a big enough person to be happy with the many things I’ve been granted, and stop wishing for the few things that I haven’t.

But until then, I’m going to make sure I head for the very geriatric lady’s line at Harris Teeter. Being carded still makes my day.

And if anybody asks how old I am, here will be my new answer: I'm in my prime. I'm in my prime.