[Joie Elaine cross-strap heels + Dolce Vita shorts + Vanessa Mooney choker + UO lace cami + Cloth & Stone denim shirt.]
What’s your inside age? Your “feel” age?
I’ve had pals say they’re forever 17. I’ve had some pine for 20. 30 was my favorite, but most of the time, if I had to nail it down, I’d say I’m looking at you, talking to you, and processing my surroundings as a 13-year-old. Just as freaked out, just as convinced I’m visually offensive, mostly certain I’m making no sense, and 100% more interested in finding something puerile to laugh at than make small talk.
Mostly, I felt this was my being honest and humble. I really only feel like a grown-up when I look in the mirror or pay bills.
I’ve had my share of those moments when it feels like time has stopped and waited for you, standing still until you popped back to a certain friendship, a room, a place. Time froze and everything waited for you. You feel the same. You are the same. In many ways, it’s a relief that we can summon this feeling. So few parts of getting older are a relief.
The last office I worked at (a big, legit office; a corporate scenario) was a brutal learning experience for me. I was totally unprepared, and it ended as badly as it possibly could have—you know that. I had a manager out to sabotage me from day 1 and not a single moment wasn’t tinged with paranoia, anxiety, insecurity, or intimidation. Naturally, I assumed this was how I’d always feel and behave in similar circumstances. My fate was sealed.
I stepped away from that for 6 or so years, and now, as of last Thursday, I’m back.
But I have to say something:
Time has not stood still.
I assumed it would, and I braced myself for those old horrors, but something else magical happened instead. Years of hard work and mistakes and tough projects and successes and mentors and waging a war on my own anxiety were hard fought, and not happening in a vacuum of freelancing. And they weren’t in vain. I figured merely being back in an office would wipe that away and put me right back in the overpriced shoes and bad, over-straightened hair and nervous barf breath and underdeveloped resume. But I was wrong.
I am 33. And I feel like it. And I act like it. And I wouldn’t take 26 again if you BEGGED ME.
I grew up, and it’s perhaps the most comforting, encouraging thing I’ve ever experienced. I got this.
In the last few days I’ve felt every single one of those hard-earned 6 years in every cell of my body… and it feels good as hell.
-C.
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