On Turning Twenty-Four

Last night D cleaned the entire bathroom, including throwing the shower curtain into the washer. It was an excellent idea, people rarely think to clean the shower curtain (right? Or is that just me?), but left me in a bit of a pickle when I needed to take a shower since there’s a window right next to our footed-bathtub. Ever brilliant, D suggested showering in the dark. Which is exactly what I did.

I don’t think I’d ever showered in the dark before, and as I was reflecting on it (pun intended) I started to pay more attention to my body than I usually do in the shower. (Don’t worry, this won’t get graphic.) I realized that my body is 24 years old—it isn’t just me turning 24 today, my body is too. And wow, does anything else maintain its durability as well as your body for 24 years? A car doesn’t. Clothes certainly don’t. Most animals die, houses quite possibly lose value, food spoils (and if it doesn’t you probably don’t want to be eating 24-year-old food anyway). There really isn’t anything else in life that lasts well for as long as your body. And yes, you will hit a point when it starts to deteriorate. But I’m 24. I haven’t hit that point. Sure, I find grey hair once a week (thanks, Dad) and have some leg pain and my stomach doesn’t always agree with me. But really? My body works great. After 24 years. What an amazing thing.

I’ve been reading Nora Ephron essays lately and when she writes about age she laments not wearing a bikini the entire year she was 26. After my realization last night, I’m thinking that’s not such a bad idea.

Happy birthday, body.