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ABOUT WOMEN By Lynda Arakawa |
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I've tried my best to deny it, but there's really no use in resisting the inevitable.
Adulthood. I can't fight it off anymore.
Oh, I know I've been an adult in the technical sense for some time now. I've long been voting, paying bills and living in my own place.
But somewhere along the way, I've started to become what the kids call "old."
I've heard all about 50 being the new 30 and all that. But as far as I'm concerned, 30 is still 30. It's not 25 or 20. Just ask the cashiers who don't feel the need to card me when I buy a six-pack of Killian's.
The signs of adulthood have been popping up everywhere:
Holy maturity, Batman. I'm not just an adult. I'm a (gasp!) grownup.
My friends and I were talking about growing older the other night when we got together for some pau-hana pupu and drinks. It wasn't even 10, and I couldn't stop yawning.
I wasn't bored. I just couldn't handle. And I wasn't the only one.
What happened? We were the same group of friends who used to routinely close out bars in the wee hours of the morning and then make a pit stop at Zippy's. Those days have become a rarity. And I've learned the hard way that I can no longer polish off a chili burrito and fries before bed without going up a pants size.
"We're not old, we're just older," one of my guy friends said with a tone of wisdom that comes only from age.
OK, he's right. We're not old. God willing, we have many more years ahead of us. Besides, you're only as old as you feel, right? (Wait a minute, don't old people say that?)
Growing older may not be the tragedy that we all thought it would be.
Like I said earlier, I can't fight it, so I might as well embrace it.
Just please, don't call me ma'am.
Reach Lynda Arakawa at larakawa@honoluluadvertiser.com.
