I was sipping my coffee (okay, slurping) this morning while reading the paper (okay, People) when I noticed something alarming. No, not that Kate Gosselin and her freaky hair extensions are somehow still news, although that does keep me up at night. For some odd reason, my arm is holding the magazine so far away from my face, it may as well be in the next room. And, shockingly enough, if I pull it ever closer to my squinting eyes, the words begin to blur. Hmm. How bizarre. I shrugged it off, like I’ve done for almost a year now, and extended my arm back to a good distance. Now I could clearly read “Kate Gosselin Shops for Produce!” Ah, there. Much better.
And so, my denial has begun. Yes, give me a raft and I’ll happily float down that river all the live long day. I suppose I could actually go to an optometrist. And sure, I’d probably be able to see better. But really, where does that get me? Once I give in, I may as well start eating dinner at 5 pm. Oh wait, I already do that. Damn.
Why can’t I embrace turning 40? As we all know, 40 is the “new 30”! Please. Forty is forty. The Beginning of Old. Everyone (usually those well over 40) tells me I’m still young. Forty is a great age, they assure me, liberating even. Granted, I do notice that I give less of a rat’s ass what people think of me and that in itself is solid gold. But, you can keep the stray grays, the deep wrinkled brow, and the fact that I pull a muscle just reaching for my All-Bran cereal box and did I mention the god-awful noises and grunts that come out of my mouth just getting up off the couch? When did this crap happen? Wasn’t I 29 just yesterday?
When I was 29, I was very active, had no kids. My husband and I were newlyweds, running around doing stuff like rollerblading, splitting a bottle of wine, staying up to 1 am. Those were the days, my friend, and guess what? We thought they’d never end. (If you can recognize that song, you’re at least as old as me.)
Now, I’m a sightless, grunting, wrinkled shell of my former self who can barely finish an entire beer before her liver begins to disintegrate and who happily tucks herself into bed by 8 pm to watch House. Am I getting old? Does a bear s%^! in the woods (only after getting the right amount of fiber in their diet?) This sucks. I don’t like it. I’m turning into my cranky 76 year old mother. Well, looks like I’ve got the cranky part down. I’m well on my way to Old Age. Yippee. What the hell, bring on 50, I can take it (after I take a few Advils and sit down to rest a bit.) Now if you’ll excuse me, this old lady needs to go back to blissfully squinting at Kate Gosselin pushing a shopping cart.