As I ebb ever closer to my mid-thirties, as I find myself choosing to turn off both music and the TV in lieu of a good book, and as I find myself actually watching Lifetime movies (I’m looking at you, Unauthorized Full House Story), I am aware of one thing: I am getting older. I am aging, like a fine wine or extra sharp and extra stinky cheese.
And I am okay with it. I am okay with push-up bras and granny panties. I am okay with laugh lines and gray hairs, though I only see them between dye jobs. (Hello, pink fetish!)
Because my youth sucked.
Sorry NKOTB, Backstreet Boys, Salt n’ Peppa, and TLC, but I don’t miss you. I don’t miss my fishbowl haircut (my bob seriously looked like it had been crafted from a fruit bowl), my bright blue beeper, or my jelly shoes. I don’t miss neon, flannel, or my “goth phase,” and I sure as shit don’t miss Scrunchies, “tattoo” chokers, or frosted tips.
It’s not that I have a hatred toward these things (because let’s face it, part of me will always love JTT, Bop Magazine, and Justin Timberlake before he brought sexy back); it is because I don’t miss me, middle school me: the one that was an awkward bookworm, studious yet stupidly naive. The one who had a crooked spine and wore a back brace. The one who wore high-water sweatpants, shirts that were two sizes too big — or too small — and green canvas Keds. The one who let kids copy off of her just so she could have friends.