As our children grew up, what once felt foreign to our youthful lives became entirely attainable. With five kids in tow, we finally found the freedom to enjoy spontaneous dinners and happy hours, leaving our two teenagers in charge—a luxury we hadn’t experienced since our early 20s. As we approached our mid-30s, each outing was accompanied by a mix of excitement and uncertainty: “Can you believe we’re finally doing this?” along with “Are we too old for this?”
Am I too old to party till dawn? Too old to dance like nobody’s watching? Too old to enjoy hip-hop beats? Too old to flaunt a little leg? Too old to have this much fun?
I recall a night in Las Vegas when we left a club at 4 a.m. at the age of 34. My partner, Max, turned to me and said, “We should relish this while we can; we won’t be doing this at 40.” At that time, I thought that age limit was quite generous. However, now that I’m well into my late 30s and approaching 40, those strict boundaries I once had in mind seem less relevant.
Recently, Max and I took a two-day trip to Las Vegas, where we attended a concert at the chic rooftop pool of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. We dressed up and got there early, hoping to secure a prime spot. To our surprise, a group of 20-somethings arrived, all sporting the same casual styles. For a moment, I felt out of place in my little black dress but decided to shake off any self-doubt and enjoy myself. We danced, sang, paid an outrageous $16.50 for beers, and left early for a good night’s rest.
Once upon a time, I would have felt obligated to stay until the end simply because I could, but now, in my late 30s, I’m starting to appreciate the idea of moderation.
Just last weekend, my lifelong friends, Lena and Tara, and I took a much-needed getaway. Between us, we have ten kids and had never managed to escape together for more than a single night. To celebrate Lena’s birthday, we booked budget flights to Florida and stayed with my mother-in-law in a retirement community by the Gulf.
In the weeks leading up to our trip, we dubbed it our DGAF (don’t give a f***) weekend. Swimsuit flaws? DGAF. Uncertain about my outfit choices? DGAF. Mimosas for breakfast? DGAF. However, as we lounged at an ocean-side tiki bar, watching lively octogenarians dance, our confidence wavered. “These folks could teach us a thing or two about DGAF,” Lena remarked.
Gradually, I’ve shifted my focus away from younger crowds to those a decade older, observing how they relish life without concern for judgment. I remind myself, I can embody that carefree spirit, part confident, part hopeful. Fun doesn’t have to stop at a certain age, right?
The spirited seniors on the dance floor confirmed my thoughts: absolutely right. Sure, there are activities that might seem inappropriate for a 37-year-old, but I’ve already phased them out. Like at the Vegas concert, pretending to be in my 20s is not an option. I’ve simply stopped tuning into that frequency.
Embracing aging isn’t solely about what I can no longer do; it’s also about what I can. I can wear comfy boots instead of heels without fretting over others’ opinions. I can travel with actual grown-up money. I can enjoy myself at a party or call it a night at 9:30 without feeling like I’m missing out.
Ultimately, my only limitations come from my own body, mind, and how much I let others influence my choices. In the past few years, I’ve packed in plenty of fun, and I don’t intend to slow down. I’m realizing more and more that there will always be chances to dance the night away, whether I’m 40, 60, or even rocking a bikini at 80.