A couple of weeks back, self and hubby are listening to this desi radio station on the weekend, and the RJ announces a desi dance party. Well, nice I think. He follows it up by a proclamation that the young folks had better be nicely dressed. Then he says something to this effect “If you’re 21-35 years old, come on and shake a leg !” Self and husband look at each other aghast. Whatever happened to “If you’re 35+ and happening, come out and shake a leg too”. I mean, 35 is not that far away, infact it looms very close (much too close) on the horizon. Will I, when I cross that threshold, be persona-non-grata on dance floors ?

Am I aging that fast ? So what now, after 35 you’re old, you better remain shackled to that wheelchair of yours ? If you’re 35+, you’re automatically excluded from the group they call “the young” ? Ouch. It’s like another coming of age, the first one being when I suddenly became an “aunty” after years of “didi-dom”. And all it took was marriage. Suddenly I’m like a mami, chachi, aunty etc. and I’m supposed to like knowledgable or something. I remember the first time this little kid called me aunty. He came upto me and prefixed his request with THE WORD. I looked around for some auntie-like being to emerge from the woodwork, but no, it was only me and him. So, understanding strikes. What ? Who, me ? You’re talking to me ? OH. MY. GOD. I’M THE AUNTY. It took some getting used to, I can tell you that. And what did aunties do anyway ? Are thay supposed to have the world’s wisdom at hand to answer little boy queries ? Does aunty status confer upon you some third eye, and deeper understanding of how life works ? I don’t know – I’ve never figured it out.

My mom however, is one person who’s pretty happy at all my birthdays. I can feel her affection gushing down the phone lines, as she reminds me that another year has passed. It doesn’t matter that I’m now on the wrong side of 30, where once I was on the right side of 20 – she’s still celebrating. And I’m thankful for that.

In some (crappy) magazine I read that the line separating girlhood from womanhood is thin (I know, I know – I cringe now, but I used to read this kind of stuff then). Now I think, that line must not only be thin, it must be invisible, because I’ve never crossed it. So for all I know (and care) after years of marriage, kids and life, I’m still a girl and hubby’s still a guy, and 3 hours on the dance floor, is a workout, yes, but not enough to make me keel over and die (yet).