You can’t go back

Change comes, whether we like it or not.

Getting old beats the alternative.

You’re only as young as you feel.

Sentiments such as those above have been whirling around in my head ever since I reached my 30s. My mom had me when she was 29 years old. So when I reached 29, I felt like that officially made me an adult.

Problem is, I don’t want to be an adult. 

I want to go back to living in Mallard Pointe apartments with Colleen and Kate and Corinne, partying until all hours of the night, walking back and forth between apartments and never knowing what the night will lead to. I was 22.

I want to go back to riding in the middle seat of John’s car, Carmen in the passenger seat, holding a candle while he drove us to the airport so we could play on the moving sidewalks in the middle of the night (pre 9/11). I was 15.

I want to go back to the nights when starting the party at midnight didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all, sitting with my newspaper coworkers on the back porch of the small house Jeff and I shared, watching the sun come up and we hadn’t yet gone to bed. I was 25.

Sometimes I want to go back to the time when my biggest scheduling concern was whether I would wake up from my nap in time for Sesame Street. I was 4.

Or when Amy and I used to argue over which one of us looked older (an argument I’d be happy to lose today!). I was 8.

Heck, I even want to go back to dancing the night away at 8es for the first time, a night that ended with me stealing a shelf from an empty apartment in order to help Chris with his decorating needs. I was 30.

But since I can’t go back, I will go forward. I will run forward, to be exact.

I choose to spend my last day of 31 running. 11 miles to be exact. And I’ll meet Corinne at the end of it for coffee and conversation. Maybe we’ll even talk about the old days.

It’s not quite Mallard Pointe, but it doesn’t suck, either.