Monday, September 30, 2013

Getting Old Sucks

“Women may be the one group that grows more radical with age.”
― Gloria Steinem 
 There was a time when I could have intravenously injected straight caffeine into my bloodstream and I STILL would have been able to get a good 10 hours of uninterrupted, dream-infused sleep.  Today, I believe I had a SIP of coffee at about 4pm yesterday afternoon and I've been wide awake since 3am.

42.  Magic for Jackie Robinson.  Me? Not so much.
My "girl doctor" (which is just a polite way of saying "gynecologist"...I can't call her my OB/GYN because the OB part of me doesn't even exist in dreams anymore) told me on my last visit a couple of years ago that I just can't take the caffeine anymore with my aging system.

My aging system.  My aging system.  (It echoes, doesn't it?)

I don't like to think of myself as getting old.  In my HEAD, I'm easily 12.  My favorite ALL-TIME joke (if I used names in this blog, I would totally give a shout out to DT who provides a public service every June with her own personal Corny Joke Month) is:

Q.  What does a nosy pepper do?
A.  (PLEASE include finger wagging and head shaking)  It gets JALAPEƑO business! 

Is it really appropriate for women over the age of 40 to guffaw hysterically EVERY TIME they hear a joke they've told for about two years?  No.  No, it isn't.  But I do it.

I realized not long ago while purchasing adult beverages at my handy local liquor store that I am EXACTLY TWICE the legal drinking age.  I have lived two lifetimes of legal drinking.  Somehow, I did not celebrate 42 with nearly the same enthusiasm as I put into 21.  If I'd THOUGHT about it earlier, I would have thrown an amazing party for 42.  "Woo hoo!  I'm legal TWICE OVER!"
No, I don't FEEL 42 in my head.  My body, however, begs to differ.

  • When I roll out of bed in the morning, it's now less of an actual roll and more of a grunt, groan, shove.  NOTHING I do is graceful.  In my defense, I have never been graceful but I had hoped that maybe grace would come to me on the back nine.  So far, it's eluded me.
  • I actually wince when I step onto the floor in the morning.  This morning my right foot had this weird shooting pain right in the arch.  Every morning it feels like my feet are actually if they've been screwed on by some twisted cobbler who visits in the night like an old person's Tooth Fairy.
  • My breasts actually point down.  Sure, they sustained not one but TWO human lives and their usefulness has passed but STILL...I am somewhat concerned that those jokes of tying them together and tripping over them and tucking them into the waistband of my pants may actually come true.  
  •  I am seriously concerned that I will suffer from female pattern baldness.  My hair is SUPER thin.  And it comes out in clumps.  I'm going to have to look into that comb-over thing, I just KNOW IT.  
  • My knees creak and moan with every step now because the cartilage I DID have there apparently packed its bags and left for warmer climates.  I have seriously considered shooting Jell-O straight into my knee joints because I just feel like Jell-O has the consistency I need.  And there would be a pleasant fruity odor wafting up every time I moved.
  • My eyes (which underwent some very expensive Lasik surgery years ago) can no longer read the newspaper without the assistance of reading glasses.  Fortunately, they make reading glasses in fun colors so I'm not totally upset about that.
  • I have some SERIOUSLY WEIRD stuff cropping up on my skin.  Have you ever looked at baby skin?  It's so beautifully SMOOTH and NEW.  My skin gets these strange bumps and lumps and dry patches.  It's all different colors now.  I now resemble some kind of an odd skin quilt that some blind person patched together.
  • My friends and I now discuss our various maladies on the phone. Classic.  Where is my rocking chair and WHAT DID I DO with those knitting needles?
I realize that (God willing) I have a long way to go on the Back Nine.  But I truly do not want to grind to a slow halt.  I would much prefer to go with all my bodily functions in (mostly) working order.  I keep promising myself that I will eat healthier (I do, for a week or two) and work out consistently (I do, for a week or two) to build strong muscles that will carry me through the next twenty, thirty years (God willing).

But, for now, I'm going to drink my coffee, turn on the morning news,  and yell at the weather man.  I'll save the twerking for another day. 

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  1. That's the best dating profile I've read in ages. It''s only missing the always appetite-whetting: "I just love being a grandma."

    You simply can't be that bummed with 42 because you have not crossed into the WTF zone yet. If you are playing the WTF card at 42, however, we need to invent another acronym for 50. I kinda go with JFC, but that's blasphemy to you southern folk. And I am also painfully aware I need to save room for more fun letter combinations as I get closer to 60. I've even had a 73 year old contact me on OK Cupid. 73, Kelly. 73. WTMFF.

    1. Obviously I am not attempting to get lucky with this post. And, as per the norm, much of what I say is with my tongue very firmly planted in my cheek. Hell no, I'm not OLD. I was wearing a LUCKY CHARMS T-SHIRT for goodness sake! I'm not playing the WTF card even a little. I'm just amazed at the slow decay process that's going on especially considering that I'm constantly bombarded with images and articles about looking and staying young.

      Screw that. I'm embracing every wrinkle. And documenting the decay. :)