With forty rapidly chasing me down, I’ve noticed some age-induced oddities that paint a less than fabulous picture of what’s to come. Apparently, most of the crazy shit lies dormant when you are in your twenties, and starts piling up like a decade of dirty laundry as soon as you turn thirty-five.
Since this is my last year in my thirties, I thought I would take the time to bask in the glow of my physical and mental neuroses, and naturally, share them with the world.
– A zit…on your face…when you are a teenager… is an unfortunate part of life. But finding a whitehead on (not in) my nether region was somewhat alarming. After coming to terms with the gross factor and vigorously searching Wed MD for my diagnosis, it turned out that I either had a mysterious form of cancer or a pimple on my vagina. Being that I’m not a hypochondriac yet, I went with the theory that it was, in fact, a zit. I dealt with it because I refuse to enter my 40’s with a pimple on my vag.
– Do you have the “if-I-don’t-write-it-down-consider-it-forgotten” syndrome? I do. However, the severity of my memory issue goes way beyond list making. For example, I use my kitchen timer to remind me that I am cooking. That’s right folks – not to alert me when my meal is done, but to prompt me in the midst of preparing a meal. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put a pot on the stove to boil water, only to find it completely evaporated a half an hour later. If a meal requires any attention while it’s cooking, my timer is solely responsible for motivating me to return to the stove.
– Apparently, our quirky slightly neurotic traits that were utterly adorable in our twenties become a little sad in our late thirties. As we age, we concern ourselves with a multitude of un-cute, ridiculous obsessions. For me, the weirdo detector goes off every time I contemplate using the library book return receptacle. My thoughts range from “What if my book gets stuck?” or “Will it definitely make it back to the library in one piece?” or “Will the librarians check the receptacle today or tomorrow?” and “If they check tomorrow, will there be a late fee?” My answer to all of these questions is always, “Ya know what? Never mind, I’ll park and go walk it in.”
– I would say that the pain game began for me at the early age of thirty-five. Because I’m fit and active, it became a daily experiment to see what form of movement stressed my muscles out the most. Orthopedists and cortisone have become my saviors. In addition to my exercise habits, my sexual performance borders on ridiculous. After an extended period of time in a certain sexual position, I switch spots with choppy movements, much like the tinman in The Wizard of Oz. Though my husband is quite skilled with the oil can, sometimes my body simply requires us to hunker down and commit to the given position.
As I reluctantly await the further eccentricities that will develop in the days I have left in my thirties, I cannot fathom how my mind and body will react to the big 4-0 coming my way in July 2016. The best I can do is dial down the incessant need to believe the “forty is fabulous” hype and embrace the quirks that will be constant reminders that with age, comes laughter.
*This piece was published on BLUNTmoms on November 25, 2015.