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Birthdays are interesting milestones. They mark the end of one period and the beginning of another.
In that sense, my 30th birthday is an imaginary boundary between my pre-30 ‘young’ life and my post-30 ‘mature’ life. However, my imminent birthday qualifies as that dividing line only within the Western system of gauging age. According to the traditional Mongolian ways, I am already 31. Mongolians measure their age by years, disregarding months and days, and they also add the ‘empty year’ spent in the mother’s womb. In yet another scheme resultant from the decades of Russian influence during the socialist period, Mongolians will discount the ‘empty year’ and account for their age simply by the calendar years. In this scheme, I am exactly 30 now. I am at the cross-roads–ambiguous, in transition.
One summer, as I was walking in the streets, dressed colorfully but professionally, my heels cheerfully sounding out my steps against the pavement and my hair responding to the playfulness of the light breeze, I noticed two young girls, seven or eight years of age, walking close behind me and whispering into each other’s ear. They then overtook me and, walking in front of me holding hands, they both looked back to steal a glance at my face. I saw admiration in their sparkling eyes and suddenly I realized that I had, in fact, become that grown-up beautiful woman that I had wanted to become when I was a little girl!
I realized that at some point I had stopped wishing to be older and was simply thoroughly enjoying being older and becoming older. Every year brought more excitement, growth and knowledge into my life and every birthday had become a mark of achievement, of anticipating another year of growth, increasing self-awareness and self-confidence.
That is how I have felt about my birthdays. Until recently. With a sudden shock, I now realize that I am not so young any more. Recently, when a young attractive man asked me how old I was, I found myself anxiously thinking “What if he is 25? Will he think I’m old if I say 30 or 31?” Awkwardly, I asked him to go first. He was 29, born in 1973 just as I was. After much hesitation, I declared that I was between 29 and 31. He exclaimed, “But that’s TWO years’ difference!” Not feeling so proud at this moment of my age of 31, I explained that I was 29 by American count and 31 by Mongolian count.
For the first time in my life, I find myself wanting to be younger, to stay younger. I still want more from life. These days, I catch myself admiring young women’s energetic bodies and wish that I had that youthful physique supporting my more mature mind. How could my flesh fail me now, when I feel strongest inside? I still haven’t met that man with whom to share my life and I may travel many more years to meet him but will my body cooperate? I finally feel confident I would be an excellent mother but will my body be strong enough to endure the pregnancy and the stress of caring for a small child?
Then again, it is not my body that is failing me but I who is failing my body. I had taken for granted its youth and its health. I had neglected and abused it. I have not loved and respected it enough. I have not loved and respected myself enough. I had thought that moral and spiritual growth is what truly counts but now I have come to a realization that without love and care for my body, my spiritual growth is circumspect. All of this – the physical, emotional, spiritual, moral, political, cultural, sensual – all of ME deserves care, respect, attention and work. |  |  | FLAG THIS STORY FOR REVIEW | |
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