My Grandma Esther (affectionately called “Mee-Maw” by me and my brother), always told people that she was “twenty nine and some months.” I never really understood why she chose 29. It didn’t hold any traditional significance like 16, 18 or 21. It just seemed like a random number.
Mee Maw had both the sparkle of youth and the matter-of-fact wisdom that comes with time. She always told it how it was. There was no wondering whether the precious gem of truth she just shared with you was actually true. You knew it was because she was confident in who she was and there was no pretending otherwise. I treasure the letters my mom saved between the two of them, kept safely in a pretty binder on my desk. I laugh out loud reading her words, remembering her personality as it shined through her writing:
“While I’m on my soap box – I hate shopping – for clothes, for food, for furniture, anything – and it seems your Dad loves it but likes me to tag along as if I have a say in whatever he’s looking for.” (I totally get it, Mee Maw.)
Maybe she was onto something with this whole 29 thing. Young enough that you can still fully embrace your girlish, youthful tendencies. Old enough that you start to understand why it REALLY doesn’t matter what other people think.
So here we go twenty-nine. I’m ready to let go of what the world thinks of me and just embrace the life I’ve been given.
Mee Maw, this year’s for you.