Am I aging like milk?

I got made fun of by a street youth for the first time this week, and I don't know if I'm laughing or crying about it.

I’m going to turn 25 in a couple of months, my frontal lobe is fighting for her life, and sincerely, your honor, I’m freaking out.

This photo is from a shoot I did a couple weeks ago, and as I sat in the grass, pretending to get engaged, I was like ‘ahaha it’s so silly, I feel like if I were to get married I’d be a child bride.’ But that’s the thing. My friends are starting to get engaged. My parents are constantly asking me why I don’t have a ring yet. I’m at the age that it would make sense for me to be taking that next step. And I’m terrified.

Throughout college, and since I’ve graduated, I’ve made a running joke that I’m just an 18 year old girl. You can’t hold me accountable for my actions, I’m just an 18 year old girl. It’s okay that I haven’t conquered the world yet I’m just an 18 year old girl.

But I’m not 18. I’m about to turn 25. I know that in context it means I’m still swimming in youth, but it doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes it feels like the last 7 years of my life have moved so fast I’ve barely had time to breathe, and yet I don’t have anything to show for it. But then on the other hand, I step back and I think about what 18 year old me would think if she saw my life right now. She would be so stoked.

“You mean that we live three blocks away from the beach, we have two cats who actually care if we live or die, and we get to go to the ballet and the opera with our boyfriend whenever we want? And we get forehead kisses? SHUT UP!”

These are all things that I literally could not have had at 18. And yet, I find myself always not being grateful for them. Then I think about where I could be seven years from now. What are all the wonderful things that are hiding on the other side of my 20’s, that I literally cannot have unless I age?

I’ll be optimistic, but my god am I going to drag my feet because sometimes, aging feels like shit.

For example, I was on a run the other evening in my neighborhood, and I ran past a group of teenagers, and one of them started to mock me! She was flailing her legs around and pretending to jog. Look- I know I look like a baby giraffe when I’m running. I’ve never been coordinated or athletic, and don’t feel awesome about that fact. (Uh, hello, why do you think I’m running at night?) But this was the first time I’ve really been ‘othered’ by a group of teenagers. I wanted to be like ‘no! I’m just like you! I’m young and cool!’ Instead I ran home and tried not to cry (and failed, I sat down in my shower and sobbed for a couple minutes before realizing that they probably still pretend they hate their moms. Love you Mami!).

So while I know that there is so much life to be lived on the other side of aging, sometimes being reminded of it really hurts. And turns out, it’s not just mean teenagers who remind me I’m aging.

I’d like to personally tell God that giving us wrinkles was messed up. It is! Why does he have to make our skin saggy. It’s mean!

I’ve had a line in my forehead since I was like 20. I have an expressive face! It comes with the territory! But I’ve found myself falling into a dark (and expensive) hole of trying to prevent the physical signs of aging. Before I expose myself, I’d like us all to pat me on the back for telling my dermatologist to go fuck himself when he told me I needed forehead botox. Okay? Cool.

So obviously I’m wearing my sunscreen every day. Rain or shine, even if I don’t leave my apartment (which is deeeeeffinately infrequent, I leave my house so often you wouldn’t even believe it). Then I started with the retinols. It started with the over the counter stuff, then I got a really strong retinol in France called A313 that all the influencers were gushing about, and then I asked my primary care doctor to put me on tretinoin, and then my dermatologist upped my dose. So now, here we are, nuking the skin cells off my face every other night. Do I see a difference? I mean, maybe? But maybe I also just aged out of my teenaged acne, and the line in my forehead doesn’t look any different than it did 3 years ago.

So yeah, the forehead not getting worse could be seen as a boon, but I’m unfortunately batshit crazy, and don’t accept that the line is here at all. Which leads me to my newest purchase: frownies. They are little paper stickers that you put on your face and they act like KT tape, pulling the skin away from the muscle, increasing blood flow, and encouraging the muscle to stretch out. Almost certainly also snake oil. I’ve used like $20 worth of them and haven’t seen a difference. But maybe my little line isn’t deep enough for it to make a difference? Ahhhh!

And then we have the silk pillowcases. Look, if I have to get wrinkles from laughing, fine, give em to me, they are the marks of a happy life. Cool. But wrinkles from sleeping? I don’t think so. Not in this life. So here I am, draping my bed in silk to prevent little crows feet from developing in the night.

I’m only 24. What is happening. Why is looking like an adult so scary to me?

When I was 17, I would cake myself in makeup to look old enough to get into bars and clubs. I was trying to look the age that I am now, and yet I hate it. I now choose not to wear makeup a lot of the time, because it makes me feel old to have it on. I’m also probably pretty bad at doing my makeup, which doesn’t help.

I hate being perceived as old, the idea of aging scares me, and I’m bending over backwards to slow down the effects of time, and yet, I would hate to stand still. I would hate to be the same person I am now, even six months from now. These are the growing pains, and I’m upset that they are painful.

I don’t know if I have a great conclusion here. I’m scared of getting older. I’m scared I’m still frittering away my youth. I’m scared that I’m never not going to be an adult again. Just like my celiac, being an adult is a forever diagnosis.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my quarter life crisis. Clearly, not enough to feel confident about it, but if you are also struggling with ideas of identity, aging, and growing up, I’d recommend two books that have helped me a lot. Quarterlife by Satya Doyle Byock and The Defining Decade by Meg Jay.

Anyway. Hope you aren’t drowning in the fear of aging. Milk when it ages can turn sour, but it also can turn into cheese, which does age beautifully! I don’t think there is a point of no return, and if there is, I don’t think I’m there yet.