Let’s skip straight to it, shall we?
I’m getting older.
No, no, no. Don’t argue with me.
There are visible signs.
Anything less than seven hours of sleep produces a visage that encourages strangers to approach me with concern in their voice, as in “Honey, are you okay? Is there someone I should call?”
The laugh lines have taken to moving about my face in order of hilarity.
I have scars that are old enough to get into certain movies on their own.
The majority of my friends are anywhere from three to 20 years younger than I am. I don’t know why that is, but it is. So as you can imagine, I am sometimes invited to so-and-so-is-turning-30 parties, in which I go along with the mock-horror of turning 30 but am secretly pilfering their beer.
I first noticed my age just a year or two ago. I went to a how-horrible-that-you’re-30 party held at the bar where the Birthday Boy bartends – in “Dinkytown”, an area near the University of Minnesota campus. There’s nothing like a college bar – really, what was I thinking, accepting this invitation? – to make you realize just how not young you are.
I was fine until I went into the bathroom. And there, hanging innocently but lying in wait, was the mirror.
What the hell happened there?!
There it was. There was no denying that that was me. Those were my glasses, after all. But my impression of myself did not match the impression I was getting from that mirror. Me? I felt great. But the woman in the mirror? She was very, very tired.
Problem was, I wasn’t tired. I’d had one beer, had not smoked, and yet this haggard old woman – at least by college-aged standards – stared back at me from the mirror.
You could see she was sorry for being the one to bring me the bad news.
Honestly, it’s not her fault.
And now, yesterday morning, while waiting for the bus, the garbage man, whilst emptying the garbage from the bus stop into the back of his truck stared right through my “good morning” smile, opting instead to goggle at the young and inappropriately-dressed-for-the-season woman also waiting.
Stilettos at the bus stop. Sheesh.
I took comfort in the fact that she completely ignored him. Ha!
You know, I don’t mind being older. (As my father says, it beats the alternative.) But it’s the looking older that bothers me, primarily because I look like I need a nap. And a tan. In that order.
Tomorrow's Blog: You Call That Music?! Why, In My Day… and other ways in which I complain about things I can’t change…
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