My 42nd birthday was last week. It’s crazy how these birthdays keep happening, faster and faster every year. And as they move faster, other things start to slow down. Like my metabolism and reflexes, digestion and remembering my multiplication tables. I find that my joints hurt more, I can’t stand up without a little limp, and my feet shuffle more than they run.

Honestly, I’ve never been one to worry about getting older. I’ve enjoyed the years. I hope I have a lot more of them to come. But the problem of birthdays lies in the fact that I don’t think my mind has caught up with the years. My mind never agrees with the number of birthday candles on the cake. My mind stays stuck somewhere in the past – a time when youth was on my side. 

This problem is so bad that when people ask me how old I am, my mind shouts out “23!” before my body can say “42”. And when the number 42 comes out of my mouth, my mind laughs a little – like what a good joke to tell people I’m so much older than I actually am. 

And then I stop and realize I am 42 and it’s always a little bit of a shock, a punch in the gut to my 23 year old mind. “What? Is this really true???”

It is true, I tell my mind. Remember Sliding Rock? 

Ah yes – Sliding Rock, the golden place for young people. It’s a haven for those who don’t know about mortgages and insurance premiums. A giant nature-made water park in the beautiful mountains of Arizona, where those who have lived less than three decades go to frolic and play in their blissful youth. 

It was the whoops of laughter that drew me in. Watching kids and teens and barely adults slip and slide down rocks made smooth from flowing water. It looked like so much FUN. The sun was dancing on the water, calling me to jump in. Enticing me with it’s sparkle and rhythm.

Seize the day! My mind told me. Live! Dive in! You’re 23!

So I took the plunge before I remembered that I, in fact, was not 23 at all. 

As soon as that icy cold water washed over me and I began to slide down the first rock, my body screamed out “Stop! You forgot you were 42!”

Within seconds, I had analyzed all the parts of me that were in danger of snapping in two. I had calculated my deductible and how much money it would take to put me back together. I felt every bump and knew that giant, blue bruises would soon appear and that I wouldn’t be able to sit down in a chair for a week and a half. My body turned into some sort of stiff board that refused to bend and flow like all the other young bodies I saw around me. I was going to die within seconds, I just knew it.

As soon as I came to a stop, I stood up. Shaking from the cold water, I looked around for the fastest way to get out of that death trap. My kids were standing on the edge of the water, pretending not to know me. Scott was shaking his head and laughing. The youth were stacking up behind me ready to slide and it was then that I realized with a sinking feeling that I had no way out. 

The rocks were too slippery to walk on. The water was rushing past my ankles making my balance questionable. And there was no way on God’s green earth I was sitting back down to slide to the end. I looked around, desperate to get out. 

That’s when a young man, probably in college and hanging out with his buddies on a sunny afternoon, stood on the rocks and reached out his hand to me. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “I can help you out if you give me your hand.”

I stared at him and managed to sputter, “I’m just so c-c-c-cold.”

“I know,” he said in a soothing voice that I’m sure he used with his grandmother. “It’s ok. Just give me your hand and I’ll help you out.”

It hit me in that moment. I’m old. I’m old and this college kid is talking to me like an octogenarian who has fallen and can’t get up. While my mind was screaming “You’re 23!” the rest of the world was seeing a middle-aged mom who was creeping toward the elderly side of life. It was one of those moments that seemed to happen in slow motion – the realization that I have slipped on over to the other side. 

I smiled at the young man, still standing there with his arm outstretched.  And then I did what any self-respecting woman at my age would do – I refused his hand and got down on my knees. I belly crawled my way out of that misery and up the rocks to safety. I wrapped up in a towel and thanked God that I had made it out alive. No more crazy adventures for this 42 year old. 

Later that afternoon, I ordered a large pizza and mozzarella cheese sticks for dinner. I signed up for an off-road jeep tour. I contemplated a horse-back riding class for when I returned home. While my body had not yet recovered from the morning rock sliding fiasco, my mind was back to being 23 again. 

I guess that’s the best thing about getting older. It’s so easy to forget.