rojak in the box

That’s not something new; not something we don’t know yet; not something we weren’t warned about. Yet for all its concreteness, growing older is something many take for granted; something many do not cherish; and even avoided by a few. My mum still refuses to wear clothing appropriate for her age, that is, 40s. I swear if we were living in the US, I’d probably have called up “How Do I Look?” by now. She said she still wants to wear teenager-y stuff to avoid feeling old; I said ‘buy why so?; we were meant to grow older and enjoy every bit of it; not linger on the past or look unnecessarily forward to the future. We are given exactly one year only to live each age, we wouldn’t want to be biased against some numbers’ I said all that to her but I doubt she understood all that I meant for her to understand; I bet no one reading this would really understand what I was just trying to say. Anyways, I am getting older. And as much as the significant-other may not feel it, might even perhaps be laughing and opposing such assertions strongly, I really am getting older: not perhaps in action and in words, but in judgment and understanding. I don’t suppose it’s boasting when I say here that I feel older and mature, but I guess it is sort of boastful if I say I feel proud of myself. I do feel proud of myself for having a good judgment of things around me, and even if I don’t, I still am proud for at least knowing that I would firmly stand for all that I believe in.