Egypt and back again

Traditionally my father starts my birthday with an early phone call and this year was no
different. Or so I thought. I have always loved celebrating my birthday. I
start nagging people weeks in advance that the day is imminent, and it is the
only day in the year that I happily wake up early, full of glee and
anticipation. It is not about getting attention or presents, it is the one day
each year I feel like I am 12 years old—without being embarrassed about it. I
am the baby of the family; probably the reason that my age has never really
meant more to me than a number or something to giggle over with a faint sense
of wonder. Until my Dad made his point in his annual call: “My youngest
daughter is 43… You do realise you are now officially middle aged?” Happy
Birthday to me.

I never thought of myself as middle aged, as in, having lived through the first
half of my life. I am not entirely sure if it was the slightly tiresome notion
that there would be an equal amount of years still ahead of me, or if the
images of grey hair, orthopaedic shoes and swollen ankles evoked a disquiet in
me. But I realised that the feeling I am just starting out does in no way
reflect objective reality.

A few days later I found myself changing into a wedding dress. Not because I
suddenly, in a frenzied panic, pledged myself to the first random stranger that
would have me. Time running out and such. To accommodate our photo feature I
offered to be the one wearing the dress. It was born out of a sheer sense of
practicality. I had never worn an elaborate white gown before; a big wedding
was not something I ever dreamed of. My own wedding was a simple and sober
affair. Over the years I have thoroughly enjoyed attending big weddings, the
magic of gowns, sparkly lights and romance affect me—it is just never something
I wanted for myself. As I was changing from jeans and t-shirt into the
beautiful gown I was making phone calls for the magazine. It could not have
been more matter of fact.

Then something strange happened. Finishing the last call while the veil was secured
on the top of my head I turned around and found the girls in the office looking
at me. They all had a wistful look on their faces as they silently stood in the
doorway. And suddenly I felt different. I could feel my normal, sarcastic self
slide into the background. But it was not until I saw myself in a full length
mirror that it hit me. I looked like the princess I never thought I wanted to
be.

The feeling was fleeting, immediately replaced by practicalities as we tried to get
the right picture. Later that day when I looked at the photos it overwhelmed me
again. There is something magical about a dress like that. It brought out a
sense of serenity and innocence I did not know I possessed. And given I am
middle aged and all, not really an appropriate state of mind.

Pondering over the fast passage of time put me in a melancholy mood. Recently, sad news
came—a good friend had passed away from a destructive disease, leaving a
husband and a small son behind. We had lived together when I first moved to Egypt,
she helped me with adjusting to an environment so different from what I knew
and shared in my joys and sadness for quite some time. She was a warm person
and a great friend, and the world feels a little emptier without her. She was
only two years older than me and, for her, middle age turned out to be well
over twenty years ago.

That is my realization of this month. Age is indeed just a number. In certain ways
it does reflect where we are in our lives, if for no other reason that it
signifies the time we have lived and learned. In many other ways it means
nothing at all. We are capable of feeling fifteen years old when we wear the
right clothes, full of hope and amazement. When someone we love dies, we will
feel every year that has passed, the finality emphasizes the fleetingness of
time. My sadness at the loss of my friend emphasizes my celebration of being
able to still feel moments of joy, wonder and innocence. I find being my age
helps in finding a balance between all those otherwise conflicting emotions.

Being middle aged is not that bad after all.