Mae Respicio

FOUR by Mae Respicio

While at my computer scrolling through feeds, my high school-aged son said: Mom, four years

of college seems like a long time. I glanced back to the screen where my middle aged friends had jumped into a challenge: Post yourself at twenty one.

There, images—their forties selves in their twenties prime—faded photos, fuller hairlines, from that time with the world at their fingers: finishing college, finding love or jobs, traveling (with maps), nostalgia at its best. I wanted to share my own photos, to see myself at that age, but they’re in my garage (printed from film).

Scientists say our brains are like filing cabinets, they have limited memory capacity. And it’s true (can’t remember why I just walked into a room). But I do remember how twenty one felt:

signaling freedom, a young person with still few lenses, judgemental in a way she no longer is (one thing that’s changed). Other things have changed too, like the shape of her body (that

pudge on her belly), her once endless energy (turned brain-foggy hot flashes), and knowing, now, that forty-something signals owning the word older (even when the world still sees older

in all the wrong ways). The Her/Then could never know that the Her/Now is only as old as she feels: empowered and grateful (couldn’t care less what the world thinks).

Scientists also say the mind at midlife can rewire itself, weaving in your decades of experience to tackle the mortgage the marriage the four years of high school (before grown flown)—all with grace and resiliency. You know to your core this is true. That’s when you search your garage; you’re determined to see the You/Then versus the You/Now. And when you open the bin there she is, all smooth faced and idealistic, no smile lines (of experience) cupping her eyes, no thought in her head (or desire to think) of what three decades will bring (couldn’t care less what the world thinks).

So, that mom tells her son as they look through those photos, her at twenty one—at TGI Fridays with friends, helium balloons tied to her hair (which is what TGI Fridays did for birthdays to

make your hair stand)—and when after TGI Fridays, to turn the day officially-official, her 

friends

bought her Goldschlagger shots (she didn’t share that part)—that yes:

Four

seems like a long time, but also the best time to begin the who, your life, the what, your

wants, the push, your pull, that long but short passage of years, allowing your life to unfold into

four decades

or more.