Fawning
by Amy Rodgers
On a bright morning in March, the sun had risen like it was any other day. Birds were singing their morning song; the grass was dewy. The trees, green with foliage, were blowing in the light breeze that is promised with every passing spring. It was like any other day. In reality, however, it was a day I had been dreading for the past twelve months. Like the aforementioned light breeze, morning dew, and singing birds; another thing promised each spring is my birthday. A day in which my childhood self relished with each passing year. It promised such things as presents, and parties, and cake! All the loveliest things. A day which I had come to loathe, and had almost been conditioned to hate, as an adult woman. Us girls are conditioned from an early age to have a fear of ageing; sagging skin, wrinkles, and grey hairs - supposedly a terrifying prospect. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of ageing gracefully, but I would be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid of these things happening to me.
On this particular March morning (or my 30th Birthday if we must be specific) I was filled with an emotion I can only describe as a mix between sadness and anxiety. What was going to happen to me? Would I instantly start getting dark spots and wrinkles? Would I have to change the way I dress? What about my stuffed animals? As a woman who has always appreciated bows, baby animals, short skirts, and cutesy characters such as Miffy and Hello Kitty, I was worried I would finally have to shed myself of all things "cute". 30-year-olds aren't "cute", are they? That is what I was made to believe. If I stop dressing how I like, if I give up the sweet things that adorned my house, all in the name of normality (or what our society has deemed to be normality) would I not be losing a large part of myself? What would my inner child think of all this? What is "age appropriate?" and does it involve me dressing like Nanny McPhee from now on?
But then, a thought came to me. Is my mother not a girl? My grandmother before her? Should "Girlhood" have an expiry date? Growing older does not mean you have to kill the girl inside you. I pay my taxes on time, I am good at my job, I am married, I am a grown woman. But at the core of me is a girl. She loves tying bows in her hair, wearing pink and getting her nails done all cute. She has stuffed animals on her bed, a miffy tote bag, and a million fuzzy keyrings weighing down her keys. She grows with me, but never forgets to enjoy the little things that make her life so enjoyable, even if other people may deem them "childish" or "immature". We tell young people to enjoy their youth and not to waste it, whilst tying ourselves into knots trying to banish anything that may nourish our inner child.
The months have passed by me, and I am now 30 and a bit. My fears have somewhat faded, as I realised that people did not see a change in me overnight, and the people who already saw me as old, still see me the same. But most of all, I see myself the same. The same girl who scraped her knees when she fell off her scooter, the same girl who fell in love and subsequently got her heart broken by teenage boys. The same girl who grappled with her sexuality for years before realising she didn't fit into any one box. I love that girl, and I would give anything to not lose her now.
