There are days when I can’t believe how fast the past twenty years have flown by.  Wasn’t I hanging out in Duddley’s Draw just yesterday, promising to go to class “as soon as we finish up this next ($1.75) pitcher”? And my years at Ogilvy - the first few in Houston, surrounded by hilarious co-workers, traveling from tradeshow to tradeshow, and vowing never to step foot in Las Vegas again (never say never).  Then off to Ogilvy in New York - several accounts, new, lifelong friends, countless amazing and sometimes trying experiences - and, of course, 9/11.  How has it been five years since I’ve been back home…wading my way through the world of freelance and children’s books and the Texas dating scene? How is it possible?

Most days I feel like a kid. Still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up…dreaming about ways to make my mark in this world, and, outside of an occasional aching back, feeling pretty much like I did when I still carried my sister’s expired driver’s license.

But there’s the occasional day, when I see my thirty-something face in the harsh light of reality. Like today, in the dressing room at Buffalo Exchange (a high-end, funky, second-hand store frequented by clientele of all ages). Packed with an armful of blue jeans, I carefully navigate my way around a giggling group of teenage girls - likely doing some last minute shopping in preparation for that first, nerve-wracking day of school.

I close the inadequate dressing room curtain and take a quick peek out at the girls in the waiting area. Half of them chattering away on the phone, the other half texting, all of them simultaneously dissecting outfits and boyfriends. I look in the mirror. I haven’t taken a shower today. My hair is a bit, well, slick - pulled back into a loose ponytail. Minimal make-up…enough to get by. I look a little tired, and the lines on my forehead are pronounced. Another look at the girls…not a line on their faces. Am I really 20 years older than them? They’re not babies. It wasn’t so long ago that I was 20 years older than babies. Now I’m 20 years older than 17-year-olds. How is that possible?

After a frustrating hour of trying on a mountain of clothing (most too small to pull over my thirty-something hips), I amble to my car in the blistering heat. I’ve just started my period (sorry boys), I’m bloated, and I need TCBY…like now.  I’m a woman on a mission, and 15 minutes later I’m scooping spoonfuls of the heavenly yogurt into my mouth while expertly navigating the rush hour Kirby traffic. It’s time to go home, put on a hydrating mask, and slather on some anti-aging cream.

Then it’s time to recall all the unbelievable things I’ve experienced in my life and all the hopes and dreams I have for the future. It’s also time to remember the insecure hell that was life as a 17-year-old girl, and how grateful I am to be past it…happy, confident and wise. I may have a few lines on my face, but at least I’m done, forever, with dateless dances, Geometry and countless hours of detention. And I can legally drink. I’m opening the Cabernet now.

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