I’m not 24 anymore

I’m not 24 anymore. I don’t know exactly when I grew old enough to see distance between who I was and who I am, but I know I’m not 24 anymore.

If for some reason I deluded myself to think otherwise, this Zumba class I took tonight was designed to correct the errors of my thoughts. I look like a 24 year old if you blink fast enough to overlook my grays and disregard the dark circles around my eyes. There I was much older than I remembered. When I shook my hook, I realized it had gotten rusty. I can’t sashay like I used to do. I dropped it low and almost couldn’t pull it back up. It made my hip hurt and my booty doesn’t pop.

My little cousin insisted that I go with her to this class (she is 24). My small frame makes me look fit. It’s so deceiving (50% genetics/50% diet/0% exercise). When we got home, my foot was swollen. And my hip still hurt. My sweet loving hubby brought me some BC powder and said, “I knew it would be too much for you. I didn’t want to tell you. I just figured I’d let you find that out on your own.” He’s not fooled by my thin thighs and perky breasts; he knows why I have gray hair and dark circles under my eyes. He’s fully aware that I’m not 24 anymore.

I don’t want to be 24. There wasn’t anything so remarkable about being that green to the things of life. I did have fun though. I always pursued passions, but looking back now I’m critical that my philosophies may have been superficial. (Shut up older me! 🀐 That’s why 24 year olds don’t want to hear middle-aged opinions) 24 is where I really embraced my authentic self. I didn’t understand limitations or barriers; therefore, I had no fear of failure. I was unapologetic for not being stereotypical in my looks, thoughts, or ambitions. Back then I danced all night. My hip never hurt, my feet never swole up, and my hook wasn’t rusty.

I’m not 24 anymore. I’m 47. And I don’t think I like Zumba very much. πŸ€·πŸ½β€β™€οΈ