Since it was a national holiday and everything yesterday (NO! Don’t be silly, not Memorial Day, but my birthday, doi) I have been thinking a lot about aging. I am now in my late twenties (27), which to me is almost 30, which in turn is really almost 40, and so on and so forth. I am going to be completely honest: I do not want to age. Out of laziness and self-preservation, I am going to blame our society on this one, and not ego. I don’t think I’m particularly vain (dissenters, no comment!): physically, I am a chub (kudos for Matt who refuses to say I look fat, when, in fact, I do and calls me “voluptuous”, probably out of fear) with stringy hair, and intellectually long division is still a feat for me, so I’m nothing to write home about. But I like that I don’t have crows feet and I can still remember the minutia of long past conversations. I like that I can still wear ridiculous costume jewelry and can touch my toes easily. But I can’t ignore the tell-tale signs.
I wake up achy and stiff at times. I thought, “Oh, that’s because I’ve been working out!” I thought this for a good long while until I realized the last time I worked out was (at the time) weeks ago. (Now it is eight months ago.) Another thing: I am always talking about my health like an old lady sitting on her stoop, lamenting the way “things used to be”. (For me, that’s just a few years ago before my diagnosis, or even last summer when I was feeling better. Aw, those were the days!)
Finally, if I have any caffeinated beverage, say, after 10 am, I cannot sleep well the following night. I toss and turn. Take yesterday for example: at 2 pm I gobbled down the rest of my birthday cake while Matt was at the movies watching Terminator (it’s easy to see why I did not go), and washed the said cake down with some Coke that was leftover from the party. I mean, this was bad in a lot of ways: first of all, you should not wash down a icing-laden sugary cake down with Coca Cola, which has, what?, 20 teaspoons of sugar a serving? Secondly, I was having caffeine at 2 pm which is sleep suicide. So, I got what was coming to me: a few more bathroom breaks and a night tossing and turning.
I also know I’m getting old because everyone is getting married and having babies. Obviously, I am contributing to the trend, but still! So that’s how it is: I live in the suburbs in a standard colonial with a husband and a black lab. He mows the grass and I go to the grocery store. It’s all very, very typical. Just throw me 2.4 kids and a minivan, and I’m set.