Today I'm 42. Yeah, I don't know how that happened either.
Recently, I've had a recurring memory cycling through my brain. Of my mom and the teenage version of me stretching my jeans after they'd come out of the wash. She'd grip the waistband, I'd take a leg and we'd yank the damp denim in opposite directions as if we were pulling taffy. We hoped this would offset shrinkage. That it would delay, for a few months, the inevitable new Gloria Vanderbilt purchase.
My poor mom. It must've been hard for her, watching her oldest daughter sprout so fast, passing all the girls and most of the boys her age. All those crazy bones and tendons and muscles thrusting higher and taller, refusing to quit.
I don't know why the jean-stretching memory has bubbled to the surface lately. Except that, in those moments of tug-of-war, I remember feeling close to my mom, bonded in a common goal of lengthening my pants.
And for that, despite the general shittiness I associate with my height in my teen and young adult years, I'm grateful.