Monday we went to the Aquarium and since it was a holiday, Rob got to go with us. Usually, I'm the only one that gets to take our kids to fun places. It was a nice change. I also made him man the camera. Another change. Finally, I'm in some photos showing that my children do actually have a mother and aren't running wildly over the city by themselves.
But then I got to look at the photos. Oh. Oh, dear. I tried to convince myself that it was the very horrible underwater lighting from the fish tunnel that made the black lines under my eyes.
But the succession of photos (five in all) all show the same thing. When did I get these huge saddlebags under my eyes? When did I become a linebacker? My journey towards thirty (which ends on the 19th) has been a hard thing to swallow. I thought I'd be fine. "Eh, thirty, whatever." I'd catch myself saying when I was closer to twenty-nine. Oh, my naieve younger self!
But I am having a problem with aging. Trying to deny it isn't helping. This life mark, stepping stone, accomplishment, whatever you want to call the turning point of thirty, has my heart clenching regardless of the ridiculousness of it. And I do realize it's a little silly. I still can't help the feeling.
So, I look at my photos. Sometimes. I accept the black bags. Or try to. I stop myself from agonizing over the calendar and my death-march to thirty. Maybe. I take back the camera to hide the aging evidence. Definately.