Yearning For Aging

January 13th 2024 

I look at my reflection and try to adjust my side bangs, I realize that I should have not cut my hair stoned last night. I stretch the hairs out and see how uneven they are, it’s looking bad. Searching through my bowl of hair supplies I find two bobby pins and I pin my bangs back. I can’t deal with fixing them tonight. 

I have decided I am going to get drunk tonight, for no good reason. It’s rare, I genuinely am not sure I have ever loved drinking. As the kids these days say, I am more of a gardener. Always have been. I am not ashamed to say I am 25 years old and I can’t take a shot, never learned young, and physically can’t still. It burns and hurts and makes me cry.

I wait for my Uber, a black Chevrolet, driver named Daryl. I pop a watermelon-flavored Delta 8 gummy edible. I do not understand how I can buy weed at the gas station these days. But I am not complaining at all.

Since it’s a male driver picking me up, and I am alone headed to meet up with friends. I am nervous for a moment that this man could kill me. It’s super fun to be a woman and always live on the edge of being murdered. I watch him pull up, the subtle bass of a drum echoes in the background as I blow my cat a kiss and lock my door. I feel confident in my outfit tonight, my hair is freshly red and my shirt is black and tight. 

My driver is slightly above middle-aged, very sweet, and quite chatty, but I am happy to talk. He asks me the go-to question one does at the start of the year. “Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?” I do not. I decided for the first time this year that I wasn’t going to make a bucket list. The same things have been on my bucket lists for years, never getting crossed off. I don’t need another reminder of how much I disappoint myself. I say, no he doesn’t ask any follow-up questions but tells me his.

“I want to finally lose the weight.” 

“Yes, that’s a common one.” 

“I gained so much weight during covid, just sitting on my ass watching TV.” 

“A lot of us did.” 

I feel the tightness of my belt against my waist. I indeed gained a good amount of weight during covid, enough that I had to buy a whole new wardrobe. I even had to get a sleeve of tattoos, beautiful art to combat the hatred for how different I look now. I am not sure if he can see I am not a thin person, maybe my double chin isn’t visible from the backseat because he continues. 

“It’s sad getting older and becoming so lazy. But I signed up for the gym and have been going as often as I can. I am a retired police officer now so I don’t have much of an excuse to not get back in shape.” 

My arms hug around me, I do not feel safe in the presence of a police officer. I also hate watching someone be so fatphobic. I am hoping we can change the subject soon.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, the gym isn’t a fun place to go, I get it.” 

We approach a stoplight and he tells me to come look at how good he used to look. A strange request, but I am intrigued so I wait for him to pull out his phone. He doesn’t. I lean forward as I notice he is holding a photograph in his hand. It’s an old black-and-white photo, of three shirtless men with their arms around each other posing for the camera. The sides of the photo are slightly bent in the corners. 

I can’t contain my shock as I respond “You just keep that photo in the car with you?” 

“Well, my buddy from the army recently sent it to me in the mail.” 

I notice some embarrassment in his voice. Hopefully, he is realizing how strange of a situation he has created for himself. He didn’t answer my question so I let my imagination answer it for him. I imagine he looks at it every day. He just stares at this photo of his young body and feels hatred for how he looks now. It’s sad, genuinely, to live a life so stuck in who you used to be.

“You see though - I had a six-pack and everything!” The car is dark and the light reflects on the photo in his hands off and on but yes, I do notice he has abs. I am not a girl who cares that much about muscles, so his excitement is lost on me. 

“Well yeah, but your metabolism is better when you’re younger. That’s not a fair comparison to make.” This is true apparently, I learned because I have had to do a Google search trying to rationalize what happened to me. I blame it all on my metabolism, it’s always nice to have something to blame.

It dawns on me that maybe this is something he shows just to younger women. Working in coffee for many years I have gotten to know a lot of middle-aged men and found their desire to inform you “they used to be hot” a common trope. I don’t find shame in the fact we all wish to be desired. It’s human nature to want to be wanted. I wrote a whole piece in college about an older regular at my shop who was so self-aware of not wanting to be creepy that he still, sadly, was creepy. It was a piece I wrote from his perspective as a way to understand. I am always trying to understand someone’s intention. My therapist says it’s a compulsion of mine. I was diagnosed with OCD at 24 years old and I am still unpacking how I display it. It is a gift that I do not want, but sadly I found out there is a no-return policy on this kind of gift.

As the wheels keep spinning, I change the subject and ask him what shows he has been watching. A topic I am much more comfortable with, he shares a few I haven’t heard of and then turns up the radio. When I arrive at the bar and get out to wish him goodbye, I also wish for him to “take care of yourself.” Because I worry, he isn’t.

Sipping my moscow mule, seated on the cold bar stool. I find myself, as my friends talk to each other, still thinking of Daryl’s hands holding that photograph. I think about if I had a picture of my younger, thinner body I kept in my pocket how horrible I would feel. Maybe it’s not being thinner he misses, as much as being younger. Something I have debated as well, I don’t think I ever felt skinny when I was. It’s a feeling I only know in retrospect. I take more gulps of my drink, reminding myself I am supposed to get drunk tonight. I wonder why I am not the life of the party, while I sit here quietly debating in my head my Uber driver’s sorrows. 

Nostalgia is a different kind of feeling when tied in with grief. When you’re missing your life when you’re younger it can be a happy kind of memory. Memories of freedom, naivety, and hope. When you look back through the lens of grief it’s like a cramp in your foot you can’t release. It hurts to remember them, you want to stop. But you can’t, and you’ll never be able to.

My mouth is getting dry as the edible hits my mind. I try to stop thinking about Daryl, to be present in this bar with my friends. I want to talk to someone about aging and take a poll of how many of them dread getting older. You know a nice casual conversation, I am sure everyone would really enjoy discussing it as they get drunk.

I look outside the bar at an older man with a long beard smoking a cigarette. Every old person I meet I think of the many loved ones of theirs who didn’t make it as far as them. I love old people, I truly always have. When I was in high school I volunteered at a nursing home. It taught me a lot, mostly that all the elderly really want is someone to listen to them talk about their lives. Many talked to me about how they feel about dying. I don’t want to die, I am scared of what I will miss out on once I am gone. I know, I think about dying too much, while in the car, at the movies, and even at the grocery store. I hate the romanticism of dying young, it is a toxic fantasy. There’s nothing romantic about not living a full life.

To be honest, I am tired of being young. Beauty has granted me nothing but disgust for what sexual desire will do to a man. Being young has been fun, yes, but I daydream of growing older. Where I spend my days in a rocking chair on my porch, my finances in order, my trauma therapized enough it can’t get to me anymore. Maybe even with a ring on my wrinkly finger.

I’m feeling a bit buzzed and detached at this point in the night. Remembering how pointless this all is. It is not exactly the night I had envisioned for myself. I try hard to have realistic expectations. I couldn’t have predicted a man-hating his body would cause such a spiral. I try to stay present, tell a joke or two but I’m doomed for the night. My mind is occupied and I began to write a poem in my head inspired by Daryl. Once my bed hits my pillowcase I jot it down:

Sunset Grave by Abbey Downing

I like to think of myself as a tree

At first, I was unsure how tall I’d be,

What animals will come to live on me? How many more rainy days I’ll have left to go?

Will the wind kiss me softly goodbye?

Before I die, watch me turn more beautiful than you’ve ever seen me.

I wish to age peacefully, to turn from sage green to blood orange,

and when my time comes I hope when I dance to the ground you stop to appreciate me.

Stop and look at me in awe, for I have survived,

Years of treacherous weather,

Years of kisses wanted and unwanted,

Years of laughter, crying, dancing, and sorrow.

I danced gracefully to the dirt, so don’t you dare disregard this miracle.

There are a million different leaves around me,

each one has performed a different dance.

I deserve a round of applause

Please darling don’t just step over me.

Pause - take a moment to soak in the beauty of this sunset grave.