Not a milennial

Lately, I'm painfully feeling my age. Sometimes literally painfully.

I'm still surprised sometimes that I am 40 years old and no longer twentysomething. That my sense of humor, my way of speaking, my way of interacting, could come across as dated to certain audiences. That I'm not in the know about what's new, hot, or buzzed about. That I don't document every meal and every errand on social media. (I do post a lot of photos of my son, I must admit, and I do use Facebook often, but I remember a time before that world existed--and it doesn't seem long ago to me at all.)

Somewhere, somehow, I crossed over a bridge and I can't cross back. I'm no longer a "young adult," dewy and energetic and full of promise. I'm middle aged. Egads.

It's even harder to wrap my head around it because not only do I not feel my age, but I don't look it at all. Every day, people assume I'm young -- late twenties or early thirties young. So I feel sometimes like I can pretend, like my 40-year-old self can go underground and I can be twentysomething again. Then I feel a pain in my back, or suddenly tweak my rotator cuff, or get really sleepy before 10 p.m., or notice the newly floppy skin under my chin, and I remember -- yep, I'm 40.

OK, being "old" is a matter of perspective--to many people, I'm still young. But my body is changing and my soul is changing. I'm not the person I was at 25, or 30, or even 35. Time is marching on.

And sometimes, when I interact with people under 30--the group that falls under the "milennial" umbrella--I really feel like an outsider. I shouldn't make generalizations--I have a close friend who is just shy of 30 and another good friend who is 25, and we speak the same language and connect as people, not as representatives of our demographic. But when I'm around milennials who make pronouncements like "I'm all about music" and talk about how deep they are without actually asking one question about you, I feel like I'm not making a connection. I'm talking to a living Twitter feed. And that's just not the way I interact with people. It bugs.

I'm on a tangent. But I guess what I'm trying to say is when I crossed a bridge, it left a gap--a generation gap. I'm officially on other side of that gap, also known as being over the hill (yes, I'm mixing metaphors. Bridge over a gap, over a hill, whatever.) I'm used to being on the dewy, full-of-promise, young-person side. Now I'm on the other side, looking at those full-of-promise types behind me with occasional disdain. Why don't you talk and interact like I do? Get off of my lawn! Stop Instagramming your food! And I'm not sure how to adjust. I feel incredibly uncomfortable over here.

I knew how to be young, wide-eyed, idealistic, inexperienced. I don't know how to wear this new mantle of middle age. I don't know how to be this new version of me.

And of course our society is obsessed with youth, so I can't help but feel that I'm drifting into irrelevance and invisibility. And that's rather terrifying.

Ironically, though, my age seems to be imbuing me with a new willingness to take risks and become more visible. To fail often and spectacularly and get back up and try again. Because the alternative is me withering away and never discovering what is truly within.

Awareness of mortality breeds greater courage. It just does. That's something I couldn't really access until I got here, to 40.

So in the end, crossing this bridge will lead to better things, I know. I might have to say goodbye to the breeziness, the privilege of youth. But I get to say hello to a greater understanding of myself.

That was worth waiting for.