Thirty, worried and barely surviving.

"When I go to amusement parks, I never go on rollercoasters. I'm always staying on the ground feeling as though, somehow, the chilling thrill of riding one finds us no matter what."

I was brushing my teeth when the scoundrel revealed itself. It had been tickling me right above my upper lip for days. The rascal was tucked away, withstanding every inhale and exhale. It wasn't right under my nose, it was literally in it. My first grey hair was in my nose. I had realized that aging isn't always as glorious as when you're young, using a crayon to mark how much taller you're getting. That day, age marked me and I vowed to never be unaware of its presence again. 

Since then, I've picked up a new pastime:

It's a fixation with surveying the changes that my body is going through with age. I suppose it's a form of mortality journaling, where I recognize all of the ways my body begins to wither at the age of 30.

It sounds melodramatic because most people my age are healthy and are told that they are in their prime. The word "prime" —to me— is a romanticized way of saying, "it's all downhill from here, so you better enjoy it while you can." 

Now, I'm not suggesting that your age has to define who you are. There are people who don't allow their age to dictate how they lead their lives. Yes, I've seen the sensational videos that trend online of senior citizens who can bench press more than I probably can. Good for them, really.

I'm merely stressing that we wade through our twenties and thirties narcissistically, as if they will last forever. But do we ever stop to realize how much we are physically changing during these decade-long excursions? Or are we too distracted to realize that our bodies are shouting at us with a shriek of waning youth?

I can remember kneeling down to pick something up and hearing my knees crackle like fireworks; it was like my very own bittersweet Independence Day, my body was beginning to set itself free from the active days of my early twenties. I remember getting used to accepting that a good night's sleep was a privilege; getting out of bed meant hauling backaches and tired bones along with you into the beginning of a new day. I remember the day when I realized my eyes would never let go of the bags they held underneath; that was a two-for-one special, that came with crow's feet developing.

I often wonder what it’s like to be elderly. Are you able to find your youth underneath the leather-worn skin? Do you have to barter with the mirror to show you what you used to look like before fine lines creased your face? Or are you just too busy to notice until you break a hip? I don't want to look at old photographs of myself and wonder how I got to where I am, sitting on a couch, watching scheduled programs and using my tongue to fix my dentures. But I think that it all happens so fast and, up until this point, I've ignored how distracted I can get when it comes to missing out on the tiniest changes.

This all stems from a fear of sort, I suppose. You get to certain age where the treacherous climb to the peak of the rollercoaster ends and, before you know it, you're dive-bombing without control. Gravity has all of its weight on your back and you begin to realize that you miss the slow crawl up.  When I go to amusement parks, I never go on rollercoasters. I'm always staying on the ground feeling as though, somehow, the chilling thrill of riding one finds us no matter what. I've been feeling it lately.

So I'm holding on. 

I'm trying to catch my breath as it seems like the air in my lungs is stolen on the way down. I'm trying not to miss a moment, a heartbeat— a breath. I want to be here for all of it— my life, that is. I want to realize the beginning of a frown line forming and count the fresh grey hairs that sprout from my chin. I wan't to look back and know that, when I die, I was never too busy to realize all of the moments I was alive.