Humor

This is (Almost) 50

I bought a high-powered magnifying mirror the other day. Just what I need, all the horrifying details of my face magnified 10,000 times.

I peered into the mirror to begin ripping out my eyebrows when,

WHOA! HOLY HELL! MY FACE IS OLD! AND UGLY! AND COVERED IN HAIR! I LOOK LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN A WRINKLED PRUNE AND CHEWBACCA! 

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[mournful cry]

 

And it’s not like we can get away with it. Oh, no. People tend to notice your face pretty much all the time. You can’t walk into a room backwards and say,

“Greetings, everyone! So thrilled I could make it to this committee meeting about committee meetings! [covering face with a manila folder] Please, ignore the hideousness that is now my face. Just stare at my ass from now on. Yes, my ass is all you’re gonna see. Talk right into the crack, it’s okay. Deal with it.”

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Sometimes I think I’d like to play around with what society thinks is “normal” and “not clinically insane”. Like clothes. What we wear every day. Sure, I could wake up, stretch, put on a shirt…maybe some pants. Walk down the street. Go to work.

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I’m too sexy for this headband.

Orrr….I could wear a headband. Yeah, just a headband around my giant forehead all damned day. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m wearing a John McEnroe headband. On my fucking head. At work. Boom.” What, are they gonna fire me for that? Nowhere in my 10,000-page employee handbook does it state that I cannot wear a headband. Why not go really crackers and start wearing a snorkel and a cape to Target? Live it up, I say! Create new fashion trends! You’re old, who gives a shit! Be eccentric! Fight society’s stupid rules!

 

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The other day I was checking out at the doctor’s office — sporting a hot pink welding helmet, natch — and the receptionist hands me a little card for the next appointment.

Then she says…”and you can call and schedule the mammogram when it’s convenient for you. ”

Hold up. I can call? Me? When in bloody hell is having a mammogram convenient for me? This chick thinks I am going to waltz out of the office, race home and

[picking up phone] “Hi! Yes! I need to have my tits squashed for about 45 minutes! Can you please sign me up right away! Yes yes, as soon as possible!” I mean, never ever give me a chance at putting off a mammogram.

I always complain about the mammogram to my husband. I’m 48 — so I’ve had a few. My boobs now? Just flaps. Sad flaps hanging down to my ankles. This is what those x-ray machines are doing to me. And my boobs always hurt now. I’ll be sitting in my office typing away and….ooh! Ow! What the? Shit! OW! OW! Is that a hot poker in my tit?!

Getting old means random excruciating pains that come out of nowhere then disappear. My husband will be lying on the couch watching MASH reruns.
Suddenly he’s cringing and crying, “Ah! Oh! What the? My nuts! My nut hurts! Kill me now! Oh, now it’s gone. Huh.”

Basically after 18 years of marriage this is what our foreplay amounts to:
“My nuts hurt!” “My tits hurt!” “MY NUT!” “MY TIT!”

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My husband and I have lived together for 20 years. Twenty years of getting to know each other’s bodies and all the weird medical shit that can happen as you grow older and gradually fall apart. For fun, we constantly feel and examine our own bodies, looking for various lumps and bumps. Piece of advice for you newlyweds out there: When your significant other says to you, “Hey honey, feel this lump…” don’t feel it.

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True, our bodies decay, but it’s slow enough to make it seem like an eternity. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, it do. Oh, it do. 

Like my waist. Actually, I don’t a waist in the general sense of the term. What used to be my waist is buried under this bulbous, bloated blob that once upon a time was called “my abs”.

I used to have fat around the lower part, but now the upper abdomen has joined in on the fun. My daughter gave me a hug one day and said in that sweet Shirley Temple voice of hers: “You know what I love about you, Mommy? Your three humps. They’re just so squishy!” Then she pokes me in my three humps and runs off giggling.

Three humps: my boobs, my upper and lower abdomen. Of course, the great thing is my 3 humps are now morphing into one giant shitshow. You know how they label women’s body shapes fruits? You can be a pear or an apple?
I’m a fucking cantaloupe.

And the bonus part? My pants constantly slide down. My entire day is me ever-so-inconspicuously pulling up my goddamned pants. First I pick the wedge, then I hitch ’em up. Pick, hitch, pick, hitch. I’m like an rotund oompa loompa — all belly. I’ve tried belts, doesn’t work. It’s like putting a rubber band around a balloon.

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“What do you do when your tits and abs morph?”   “I don’t like the look of it.”

 

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And why do men care if we are a little chunky? A little fluffy? Why do we as women care? I wish I could’ve been there that day back in caveman times, when they’re all sitting around an open fire, picking bison out of their teeth with a sharp stick, and the man looks at the woman and says, “Hey, good bison. By the way….y’know…I don’t know how to say this but uh….you’re getting a little chunk in the trunk. Maybe you should try slimming down a bit. Yeah, then life would be sa-weet.”

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Of course, along with our bodies, the senses all start to collectively go to shit too. I can’t see or hear much of anything anymore. I was in a deep sleep the other night, my mind dancing on the periphery of a dream, when I heard this faraway noise. Bang, bang, bang.

It was soft as first, but as I stirred awake it became louder. Bang! Bang! Bang! I wiped the cobwebs from my eyes and listened. Bang! Bang! Bang! Was that coming from outside? I got up, crept over to the open window and listened again.  Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was methodically and maniacally hitting something or someone with something!  (Hey, I was still half-asleep, it was all my brain could muster.)

Clearly, our drunk neighbors were engaging in some kind of weird midnight squirrel-sacrificing ritual. It’s amazing the things that run through your mind as you’re standing half-naked in an open window:

OH MY GOD! WHAT IS HAPPENING? HOLY SHIT — I really really really think our neighbor is burying someone in his garden! shhh! There it is again! [Bang! bang! bang!] Maybe he’s hitting someone with a log? [Bang! bang! bang!] You’d think they’d be dead by now.  I mean, if this guy’s going to be taking on a career as a serial killer, he really needs to up his game. [BANG BANG BANG] Maybe people are trapped inside a metal 4 by 4 container underground and their only hope is to clang on the walls with a piece of wood? What do I do? What do I do? Call 911? [This is when I began running around in circles, my boobs flapping all about]

I was thisclose to waking up my snoring husband when I turned and saw it: Ohhhh.

It was the bedroom door. [ahem] The bedroom door was softly thumping against the door frame because of the wind blowing through the open window. THE DOOR.  No, it wasn’t a serial killer sacrificing small animals in my backyard but a door.

SNL

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Getting old sucks all around. Especially when you’re getting old and so are your kids. I was tucking my 11-year-old daughter in bed the other night. We talked about the usual —  Andi Mack, bullies at school, the fact we’re all gonna die one day — I gently kissed her forehead. I’m about to creep out the door when she sat up, looked me dead straight in the eyes and said, “Mommy? I wanna know all about genitals.”

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My daughter is like me, straight-forward, no bullshit, just the facts, ma’am. The other night I sat down beside her with a heavy sigh. I held her close and gently stroked her downy hair. I whispered, “What ever happened to my baby girl? Why, just yesterday you were a sweet baby with a cute widdle binky, wearing widdle onesies and a widdle bow in your hair. You used to snuggle in my arms for hours while I rocked you to sleep. What happened to her? Where is that girl?”

My daughter deadpanned, “That girl died years ago.”

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And that, my friends, is why I drink on occasion.

 

(Fine, I’m not really almost 50, but I’m almost 48. And 50 is just sitting there. Like some big dead end.)

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29 thoughts on “This is (Almost) 50”

  1. LMAO!! I know! What happened to my figure? The one where I too had a waist. And what’s up with my skin? Blotches, spots, getting thin and wrinkly, but I still get zits and an oily forehead.

    Do yourself a favor and get rid of the magnifying mirror – worst thing ever invented! Grab a pint of Chunky Monkey and hunker down with some Burt and I.

  2. ROTFL As usual, you nailed it. My sister hurt her knee on her 40th birthday. She said to my mother “I knew things would start to go downhill when I turned 40, but I didn’t know it would be THAT DAY” lord knows what she is thinking now that she is well into her 50’s…

    1. It really is incredible, the speed at which every single part of your body starts to break down once you pass the age of 40. And suddenly you look in the mirror and realize, “Damn, I’m old. I’ve turned into my mother!” Oh the horror….

        1. I’ll see your mammograms, colonoscopy, turning 50, prostate exams and having a hip replacement and raise you…having your sweet, 3-year-old great-niece pat your neck and say, “why do you have this hangy-down part on your face?” Booom.

  3. Ahh, the indignities of preventive medical care…. I love the last part of every annual physical (thanks, Al). But my dad told me not to get old and wasn’t it Pete Townsend and The Who who warned us? I am on the fourth day of the third week post total right knee replacement and I can now walk better than I could four weeks ago. Progress. Hang in there, the bright side is we get wiser as we get older (cumulative boneheaded mistakes). Have a great weekend.

    1. You hang in there, as well. Total knee replacement is nothing to sneeze at (seriously, don’t sneeze, it pulls the stitches something wicked). Rest easy and hope you have a speedy recovery.

  4. When you reach that “big dead end” you’ll meet lots of interesting people: the physical therapist, the pharmacist, the periodontist, etc. Say hello to Metamucil, bifocals, Poise pads, Spanx, orthopedic shoes, and memorizing the location of every bathroom in town. Ask Santa for gift cards to CVS or Walgreens. Enjoy the two years you have left, Darla. Life will never be the same. LOL. 🙂

  5. A cantaloupe perfectly describes the shape of my body AND the condition of my skin.

    I’ve missed you. Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch!

    1. HAHAHAHAAA!!!!! OH MY GOD! Such a visual! I always say, when you have to pick up your boobs, roll them up, THEN put them inside your bra it’s time to pack it in (pun intended).

    1. And what kills me are these people who insist it’s “all in our minds” and we can cheat time etc. Oh no, it’s not in my mind. It’s in my saggy boobs, fat ass, and achy joints.

  6. Where the hell have you been. You don’t OWE us an explanation but I’d like one anyway. And where the hell is Peg? What a couple of slackers.

    Some parallel universe shizzle going on here. I had a birthday yesterday and I can tell you I’m well north of 48. It’s sickening. Being old blows. And I don’t mean ‘growing’ old because that implies I’m not quite there yet. Oh, I’m there. You just wait. I won’t get into the details because I don’t want to spoil the great surprises in store for you. I was walking down 7th Avenue last week and it dawned on me that I’ve passed into old and creepy. Before I got old, girls I’d pass on the sidewalk would occasionally hold their gaze for a beat or two. Now, they quickly look away. Like they’ve spotted a hideous monster. Message received.

    My bride and I are coming up on our 19th, but we were together for two years before that. AND I’ve got a 11-year old girlie. So we are on the same time/space continuum marriage plateau.

    1. We are living parallel lives! I shit you not, the working title for this post was “Getting Old Blows”. (Also: “Life Sucks and then You Die” or “Just Kill Me Now”.)

      It really is something, isn’t it? That we all turn into hideous creepy Old People? It happens in a blink of a cataract-riddled eye! And it’s so true and so sad the fact that inside our minds, we are still that young, sexy, hot thang. The sight of people averting their eyes or running away screaming when I unveil myself in a bathing suit at the beach is just the start of the end for me.

      What really blows my mind is how little I can manage in physical activity. (not just the sex part) My husband and I thought we’d live it up a little and decided to walk a few miles on the rocky beach yesterday. We didn’t climb or trek or hike. WALKED. Today? Our bodies felt like they were run over by a steamroller. My husband said to me, “Looks like the beach pretty much killed us, huh?” WHAT THE FRACK???!!! I see a future filled with rocking chairs and Metamucil shots….

  7. I’m 34, but god, the hair. It’s not the little stubby hairs on my chin that bother me so much as the freaking sideburn. Wth, body?!

    My 10-year-old asked about babies a couple months ago. He knows the gist but wanted to know EXACTLY what happens to get the babies there. So we had the very detailed talk. Wasn’t quite ready for that.

    1. Oh, I know allll about the sideburns. It’s pretty daunting having to tackle ALL the little hairs that crop up on your face at my age. I have to shave my legs, my underarms, and hell…why not my face too??!!

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