No. Seriously. What happened to my 20’s? I don’t mean this in a nostalgic “they went by too fast, I miss them” sort of way. I mean, according to the Business of Show, they never happened. I have been jipped. Bamboozled. Short-changed. Tricked.
Allow me to explain. I graduated from college and shortly after, joined the cast of a little skit called “Annie Get Your Gun”. Don’t fact check me, but I believe the role I was hired to portray was 16 or 17. I was 22.
Ok. Not a huge stretch. But, throughout the remainder of my 20-somethings, I was told repeatedly I looked too young for the all-too-plentiful roles of characters in their 20’s. I was also often told that my youthful look was not synonymous with my mature and somewhat forward and abrasive demeanor. This impression of being a bit hard is a current theme even still, which baffles me as I view myself as a big pile of sappy mush. But the overcompensation for my insecurities and hence facade of (sometimes) overbearing confidence is not the point of this story. Moving on…
After years of being unable to play my own age, I came to peace with the conundrum and looked forward to my 30’s. A decade in which I would finally grow into my 20’s. It must work that way, no? Wouldn’t all of the decades just shift, giving me an extra ten Golden Years?
Nope. I turned 35 last weekend. On my actual birthday, I had an audition to play a woman in her 40’s. I made some sort of joke (as I often do when nervous) about being excited to celebrate my 25th. The comment was met with boisterous laughter from those behind the table.
Um….when did this happen? When did I all of a sudden become the middle-aged woman who cracks jokes about being young and instead of responses of confusion, wins jovial hysterics? I am under no illusion that I have the face of a 25-year-old, but is it that funny?
I blame the children.
But, don’t get me wrong. I also thank the children. The feathers near my crow’s-feet aren’t really all that ruffled. I’m finding it refreshing to play exactly my age and demographic. It’s exhausting to have to reach backwards ten years into one’s youth. I have no desire to play 25.
But, I may have wanted a crack at it when I was 25.
How many delightful years have your children aged you?