I’m old. OK, I’m not old – just older.
It’s funny how the littlest thing can freak you out isn’t it?
I’m freaking out right now! I have more grey hairs. I counted 4 this morning. I’m 25, surely this isn’t supposed to happen yet?
Maybe it is, maybe I’m over doing it a little – it feels like a bit of a turning point.
Should I see the greys as a good thing, a sign of maturity perhaps?
I feel like a teenager saying this but I thought I wasn’t going to sart going grey until I was at least 40!
Seriously though, I was thinking earlier – I’ve been in a relationship since I was 16. It’s crazy how things can change in 9 years. Even worse, 15 years ago my brother was born. I can still remember that day as if it was yesterday, but why can’t I remember most days since then?
Why is it that I can remember the day I met my husband nearly 9 years ago perfectly clearly but the rest of it is just a blur? Why is it that I can remember seeing my little brother for the first time 15 years ago – yet other days are just empty and have passed me by?
It’s very odd that this happens to us. I don’t feel like I have earned my grey hairs – surely I haven’t lived enough to have earned them? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being all melodramatic and worrying about dying (getting a bit morbid now isn’t it?) I’m just wondering why there is so much missing.
Maybe it’s stress. I’d say a good 75% of my week is stress, especially at work. The lifestyle changes I have made have helped a little – I guess its impossible to be 100% stress free, and anyone who says they are is probably lying.
Getting old does scare me though, I guess my work only shows me the horrible side of old age. There are plenty of happy old people I’m sure, but all I really ever see is people in need, or at the very end of their lives. Its tough, and doesn’t paint a pretty picture for a 25 year old who has just found her first 4 grey hairs.
I went to a funeral last week (I promise this won’t be a dark and moody post) and actually it was lovely. It was for a lady called Dorrie White, she was good friends with my Nan and went to the church I was brought up going to. Stepping back into that church, after almost 15 years was scary, but once inside it felt like home. I’m not religious anymore, but I still felt safe there, like I belonged. I felt my Nan there too, and thought about her all day.
As we walked back to the car I asked Mum what Nan would think of me now, we agreed she would be proud of me – but would probably want to ‘sort my hair out’. Maybe she could sort out my greys…