Recently, I’ve come back to Facebook. I know, that’s weird to read (much less write). I don’t like it, necessarily, for all of the icky reasons that one should not like any social media conglomerate. But it does hold a good deal of my past within its systems, and after a 6-year hiatus, it’s been fascinating to catch back up (at least passively) with people I haven’t seen with my own eyes in 20+ years.
The most startling thing, as I told my sister recently, was that we are now our parents. I know it’s like a “duh!” moment, especially after I just dropped my own baby girl off at college! But it hits you in the face when you scroll down the feed and see 1) how these people look these days compared to when you roamed the high school halls, and 2) how they’re doing the same kinds of things. Lots of posts of their kids, their jobs, and their travels.
(Side Note: I have removed almost all work-related friends from my feed. I’ve decided to keep Facebook, at least in my personal usage, limited to the people from my past, and only a select few from my present.)
The seminal moment where I realized how old we were and that we are our parents was a photograph of someone I knew while in middle and high school. We didn’t know each other well. Kind of like a know-them-to-speak-to-them kind of thing. But I saw a photograph of her, and I had to do a double-take. I could still see the youthful girl that I knew under the surface, but my first thought surprised me: She’s an older, Southern mom.
I don’t know how to describe this to people are aren’t from “the South”, but if you know, you know. When we were kids, anyone over 35 was considered old. According to my kids, this hasn’t changed. But back then, there was a certain late 70’s / early 80’s look to older women who were moms. A distinctive haircut. Specific outfits. Makeup selection. The whole 9.
And when I saw this photograph, that is what clicked. It reminded me that I am not young anymore. Even when my mind’s eye tells me that I’m under 30. Granted, my back and legs relish in reminding me of my age, but that’s another story.
It was just that stark reminder that you’re not really prepared for. It made me laugh in my own personal sphere, but it also made me realize that my own parents aren’t my (actual) age anymore. They’re getting older. And I should commit to making these days, weeks, months, and years count with them.
