Time Marches On

When I was a teenager, Tracy Lawrence released a song entitled "Time Marches On."  I hated that song.  It seemed so stupid to me at the time.  Of course time keeps moving; what else is it supposed to do?  You are young, time moves, you get older.  Duh.  Now, more than 15 years later, I understand the words and the meaning in the song better.

I found my first grey hair on Thanksgiving.  I know that to some this is not a big deal.  My mom was more than half grey by the time she was 35, and my 30 year old brother is half grey now.  (Other than that, he looks like a teenager.  Not fair.)  Charlie has plenty of grey hair of his own.  I didn't.  My dad didn't start getting noticeably grey until into his 40's.  I take more after him, and I was hoping that I could look younger than my real age, like he always has.  It's not a vanity thing.  It's a denial thing.  I don't want time to march.  I want it to crawl.  It seems like the last decade hasn't marched, it ran.  Joe went from being a baby to darn near a teenager; I went from being a dumb 20-something to an full-fledged 30-something adult.  I don't know how it happened.  Before I know it Joe will be in college and I will be an empty-nester.  Holy cow.

I'm not the only one unsure as to where the time went.  Charlie is going to be a grandpa this coming summer.  He keeps telling me that he doesn't feel old enough; that he doesn't feel any older than 30.  It doesn't seem right that his daughter is closer to 30 than he is.  It makes me think about the next decade and how different life will be.  Joe will be in college.  I will be in my 40s.  Charlie will be in his 50s.  He will most likely have more than one grandkid.  I'm pretty sure he'll still not feel his age, though.

Like the song, I will call myself a sexy grandma and my brother will probably be on a diet for high-cholesterol.  Time marches on.