The Age Cage

When you're younger, all you want to be is older. From playing dress-up with your mother's clothes and purses to the hope of hanging out with your older sister and her friends and even just being able to been seen as a responsible "young woman," it's always about one thing: your age. We strive to be seen as older, wiser, more mature, when really it doesn't matter. You age dictates it all.

Now, at 29 I find myself still with the same hopes and desires, except this time wearing designer clothes and hoping others won't see me as a "young girl" especially in the work place. Unfortunately, that's not always the case.

No matter where we are in life, why do we always seem to be in the "Age Cage"?

At what point do people stop looking down at you, and start looking up to you? You can bust your butt working hard, day in and day out, go out of your way to make ends meet and bring an enthusiasm unique to your group of colleagues, but does it all really matter?  In the end, how come it always comes down to experience and what age box you fall in?

Criticism seems to only travel down a one-way street.  For instance, people feel it's okay to point out that you're skinny (as if revealing some revelation known only to them) and hey, why not "eat a sandwich" while you're at it. But would the flip side elicit a much more different response? If I were to turn around and tell them to "stop eating sandwiches" or "wow, you gained weight" -- why would that honesty seem rude but calling someone skinny isn't? Why go to those measures instead of pointing out that someone looks "great" or "healthy" or "fit".  That's much more of a compliment than being called "skinny." Yes, it's true people would rather be labeled "skinny" than "fat" or "overweight" but when you receive any type of comment over and over again, one that doesn't necessarily invoke positive feelings, it becomes, plain and simple: hurtful.

So if comments on weight can travel down a one-way street, why does age follow suit? Maybe there's a magic age when the vast majority of people finally accept you for who you are, no matter your age, sex or weight. The comments stop and you start to become part of the group.

But does it ever really stop? Will a whole new generation of people come and go, ultimately experiencing and feeling the same thing? When I turn 30, will the world of thirtysomethingyearolds welcome me with open arms? Or will I receive a whole new flood of questions and comments: why aren't you dating anyone? When will you get married? How come you don't have kids? Is something wrong with you?

One can only hope it's not some vicious cycle that never ends.

Scrapbook of Memories

They say memories are a collection of thoughts; a scrapbook of ideas, emotions and revelations that occurred at a moment in our life that we recall despite choosing to or not. They can be good memories that bring a smile to our face, or bad ones that ultimately lead to tears. Why something becomes part of our mental scrapbook is unbeknownst to us; maybe they're turning points in the novel of our life. They could be big things or little things, and regardless, they are etched eternally in our minds.

Maybe those are the seconds, minutes, hours of our past that we unconsciencely choose to take with us into our future.

Or maybe they're milestones, of different size or significance, that ultimately shape our thoughts, our lives, our world, and when all said and done, we aren't supposed to understand why we remember those times over others.

It has been said that "Time heals all wounds."  But what they don't mention is what gets left behind: scars.

And what sort of memory do those become?

When you look back on all of your physical scars, what's the first thing comes to mind? Is it the anguish and the tears that culminate into the memory that serves as a painful reminder of what you endured?

The way I see it, scars are evidence of life. Proof that we lived, that we made choices, good or bad, that we tried and tried and tried. Maybe failed. But we got right back up and tried again. The wounds and the lessons we learn from them are what make us whole. They are what make You, You.

As we continue to move on to new experiences, figure out what make us tick, and discover the things we want to achieve, why not think fondly of these scars? Why not wear them proudly as if they were gifts from the world telling us plain and simple "Look. You survived."

So go forth. Wear them like medals. Make them shine. Show everyone around you that you did not give up.

You healed. And you're a survivor.