I don’t understand people who are insecure about their age. I don’t buy into this apparent need people have to prove how young they are with “anti-aging serums” and acting as if their age diminishes their value when really, I think people—like wine and cheese and fine leather—tend to get better over time.
I’ve only ever wanted to grow up. When I was younger, I would stomp my foot and scowl and cross my arms and insist that I was not to be treated “like a little kid” and therefore deserved whatever trinket or privilege I was being denied.
When I came of age to practice magic, a full adult in the eyes of the law, my enthusiasm was somewhat quelled by the fact that it was of little use to me at the time, living in the Muggle world as I was. The irony was not lost on me, as I spent my 18th birthday in a grimy Muggle diner, sitting in a booth with a torn cushion and choking down a chicken salad sandwich.
It got better, later on, when Harry came back into my life and turned it upside down in the best way with his easy generosity and forgiveness, and eventually his love. But he doesn’t get all the credit; I think, now, that I earned it—that I still do, every day. And more than that, I worked for the happiness I’ve achieved over the last two decades.
I only got happier as I got older. The better part of my youth was filled with bitter resentment and anger, plus two years of near-constant terror.
When you come from a life of privilege, you think that everything will work out for you. You’re taught that your parents can solve any problem with connections or money or both. I had the rug pulled out from under me before, during and after the war in that regard, and while my family and I deserved every consequence we paid, if not more, I think it’s okay to still have compassion for my younger self; to look back at that time and remember that the struggle, no matter how merited, was still a struggle—grueling and brutal and constant.
So I don’t understand why some people seem to dread aging. Maybe most people had an easier go of it than I did, at least I hope so, but it seems that this fear and pressure to feel like you’re not wasting your time, your vitality and youth, is universal among the young. I am glad to be passed that.
I turn 42 today. When I informed Lily of this fact the other day, she began to snicker. Trying to rein in my offense at her rudeness, I frowned and tried to explain that it was impolite to shame others for their age, but she stopped me, her expression turning serious, eyebrows drawn in a way that reminded me starkly of Harry.
“Sorry, Papa, I wasn’t making fun of you. You see, 42 is the meaning of life.”
Nonplussed, I sputtered. “Pardon me?”
“42,” she explained. “It’s the meaning of life. Ask Dad, I think it’s a Muggle thing.”
I did end up asking Harry, who chuckled and explained that it was a Muggle film that he’d be glad to show me at my request. I will likely take him up on it, if for no other reason than my dislike for not being able to parse my children’s pop culture references. But I digress.
My point is that, while I certainly don’t claim to be a Seer, this year is already off to a perfect start, as I’m surrounded by loved ones and simply bursting with a stomach full of Harry’s decadent red velvet cake. It well may be that 42 is the answer to the meaning of life, the universe—and everything.
