White Hairs and Wonder Years

Yesterday, I stood in front of the mirror, my hair all mussed, my shirt hanging off the kilt of my shoulder and I noticed one lone hair, shining brighter than the rest, attempting to craggily stand itself up into the air. I smiled, pulled it away from the rest of its brunette companions and marveled: this white hair was proof that I was again! It was not silvery gray, like many others that tuck themselves here and there; no, this one was white! A shimmering beacon of the next frontier for my life. Unlike perhaps many I know, I didn't freak out, I didn't immediately think, "Now I need to start dyeing my hair." No, I just thought, "I guess I am living." And so I tucked the lone hair back with the rest and went on my way.
 
Today, I went to a party for an old friend--Will--whose birthday falls on Monday. As we waited for his arrival (it was a surprise party, after all), I began to count how long I've known Will: twenty-one years. Twenty years is a long time, it's years of stories, of growth, of pain and joy; twenty-one years is somehow magical. Will is a talented, sweet, and genuine guy who tonight found himself surrounded by friends from first grade, high school, college and beyond. That, to me, was quintessential: this was, I thought, a life well lived. To be surrounded by those you love, to have them enthusiastically toast to your name, to watch them mix and mingle and twist and turn and clap their hands in delight to the music of their younger years; when people come together to celebrate life (as all birthdays, funerals and memorial services ought to be, in my mind), something exciting happens.
 
For me, it was the realization that I don't party anymore. That I have got a limited social circle now to twist and turn and clap with. By the end of the day, for better or for worse, we depart our ways, one off to the gym, another off to bed, some to do work, some to drink a beer. Mostly, though, we find ourselves tired, and ready for the warm embrace of blankets, pillows and wrinkled sheets. Tonight, water cup in hand, I watched as people laughed and played, as they chugged down cups of vodka and sipped age-old Scotch and I thought to myself: I used to do this. Do I miss it? I realized, I didn't miss the guy puking upstairs or the loud and boisterous, hip-shimming blondes; I did miss the people. I missed the incredible social circles that exist in my life, the people who would climb trees with me, or go running through the sprinklers; I miss drawing on people's bodies, I miss finding a warm companion snuggled in my bed. While being ill these past few days, I've come to realize that I miss the idea of my life, the gift of what I have had so far. The companionship, the willingness, the invitation to be simply myself.
 
With twelve days left until my twenty-seventh birthday (which seems incredible, in itself, I swear, I was just seventeen!) I am aware of aging. Aging and growing into something, but the something isn't a clear picture, but a feeling. Sometimes it's a convoluted feeling. With twelve days left until my birthday, what becomes clear to me is that this year, the year I have for years and years thought would be the magical year, has been, a gift of odd adventures, a gift of new stories, a gift of self discoveries, tragedies, opportunities, and shifts. The white hair, I think, is well-earned. It is well-loved, even. In some ways, it symbolizes the companionship I've had: the growth experiences, the lessons, the books, the information, the struggles, the blessings. I still find myself as my greatest companion, and my heart does, sometimes, yearn for the comraderie and conversation that comes with a little something more. Yet, I recognize, it's not the time. And so I look to my hair, the secrets tucked within it, and I smile. No, I don't think I will cover this one up, at least not yet, because, for now, it's a reminder of just how far I've come. And its brunette companions are reminders of just much further I need to go.