Birthday

Another year, another birthday. Today I have reached the grand age of forty six years. I am now officially nearer fifty than forty. Do I feel old? Mature? Wise and cultured? Er, no. I feel like, well, like me. That's the one thing that I've always carried with me - me. If I have to put a finger on the age I seem to relate to, then I suppose it's somewhere in my early thirties. Having said that, what exactly does it feel like to be in your early thirties? I didn't know then and I don't know now how I'm supposed to feel or behave at this age.

A twenty-something Dorothy

My mother's generation always seemed to know how to act at different stages in their lives. In her twenties, my mother was a dutiful daughter, the youngest child staying at home to help her parents. In my twenties, I was opinionated to the point of thinking I knew better than my parents and I dressed like Margaret Thatcher (they called it 'power dressing'). My mother's third decade saw her meet my father and become a dutiful wife while I spent the first half of my thirties clubbing, acting on the amateur stage and wearing increasingly short skirts. One thing I always admired about her was her ability to fit in, making friends wherever my father's career took them. In comparison, I always felt like an outsider in any social situation, putting on a confident mask.

Somewhere between then and today, I came to a conclusion. It wasn't any startling epiphany. It didn't just drop into my lap one day. It crept up on me gradually, one experience at a time. This is it. There are no rules that say what you have to be at any age. It's ok to be 'me', however young I am.

Birthday

One more year to denote who I'm supposed to be.
One more label to tuck into my collar.
One more reason to be just me.