By Heather O.
When I was in the Young Woman’s program, my young woman’s leader told me that the most beautiful time of a woman’s life is when she is 30. I haven’t done the math, I have no idea how old my leader was when she told me that, and she could have just been saying that to convince herself that being 30 doesn’t actually suck rocks. Nevertheless, the conversation stuck in my 15 year old brain, and has ruminated there ever since. This woman told my gawky 15 year self, who was desperately trying to figure out when her boobs were going to come in (yeah, um, finally gave up on that one), that there is something about a 30 year old woman. She is wonderful, radiating confidence, finally satisfied with who she is, what she has accomplished, and she finally understands what it takes to make her beautiful. A 30 year old woman is, simply put, stunning, both inside and out.
All I could think of at the time was something like, “Puleeze. 30 is, like, WAY old. Whatever. At least when I’m thirty I might have boobs.”
15 years and the same bra size later, I look at myself at the mirror as I rapidly approach 30 and think, “Hmm. Is this really as good as it’s going to get? This is my prime? Well, crap.”
Not that I’m totally dissatisfied with where I am. I’ve done some interesting things with my life, and I am basically where I thought I was going to be. But there are some things that I would have hoped I would have gotten over that still seem to rankle the soul. And I sure haven’t figured out what makes me beautiful, having just gotten a hair cut that I now despise. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m just counting my blessings that hair grows. I mean, c’mon, I’m almost 30! I’m supposed to be in my prime, people! You would have thought I would have learned what NOT to do with my hair. (Ok, so maybe this post is really just all about my bad haircut, but bad haircuts can serve as jumping off points for many a soul searching rant, right?)
I guess I just thought I would be…more grown up when I got to 30. I don’t feel much different, really, and in some ways, that makes me glad. I’m still me–hooray! In some ways, though, I think, “Hey, I’m still me. What’s up with THAT?” Is that what is going to happen when we die? We meet God, we get our celestial bodies back, and think, “Hey, I’m still me. What’s up with THAT?”
Side note: The whole getting our bodies back when we were in our prime thing. Does that mean I should run a marathon now so that when I get to the celestial kingdom, I get to have the body of a marathon runner for eternity? Just wondering.
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