When you’re younger you make fun of it because it seems boring but one of the best parts of getting older and maturing is recognizing how simply lovely all that cliché shit is. Sunsets really are so endlessly satisfying. The hint of lilacs in the breeze really is soft and delicate and sweet. Sometimes it feels good just to successfully clean the sink, to find an affordable appliance in the color you’ve been wanting, to try a new recipe, to finally get through that one television series like how you’ve been meaning.
It seemed stupid because they tell you—it’ll feel quick—but it does feel quick. When I was younger it was like time was molasses. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. All the eras of my life stretched out into taffy. But then you are 29 on a walk with a friend and you both just stop to smell the lily of the valley at your feet. You are both standing there, quiet, enjoying the simple moment of peace.
They say it gets better a lot, which used to have no meaning to me. Better for me was undefined and daunting. But here is one way it got better without me trying. A few days ago i was walking my dog and stopped to stand in a sunbeam, turning my cheeks up at the shaft of golden fairylights, the dustmotes in the wood all shivering their little dancing bodies. A stranger stopped and kind of cocked her head and asked, ”basking?” and I laughed nervously, already moving to get out of her way. Instead, she asked, “can i bask with you?” and we stood there, full adults, a soundless hum in our chest. When the clouds came back over the sun, we made that awkward small talk — “yeah, i didn’t expect it to be this chilly!” and “haha, spring allergies are coming.”
And you pour yourself a cup of tea and are delighted when you measure the sugar ratio perfectly and you manage to parallel park correctly on the first time (probably because nobody was looking) and yoga really did help your lower back mobility and brown paper packages really do tug on your heartstrings and you love sweaters and furry blankets and watching your little potted plants grow one new and shining leaf and you want to find your younger self and say, "yes, I am nostalgic for summers that bent like wheat and were buzzing with low energy and sleep." But, darling, adulthood gets better because the time condenses into a prayerbook of your own psalms, these tender beautiful memories. It gets better because things become prettier, gentler, kinder to you—somehow. Without you even noticing. You just get to the top of the hill and you realize, “oh, this is the thing I’ve been missing.”
—author unknown
