Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 42. I like 42, because I am now two 21 year olds. Problem is, I don’t feel like two 21 year olds. In fact, some days I feel like a 72 year old.
There are things that they warn you about aging, and things that they don’t.
I expected wrinkles – which I have. I expected grey hair – which I don’t have. I expected a general sagging – which I have – and perhaps a general drop in energy. I don’t know about the drop in energy because I am not a very energetic person to start with, so maybe we drop less. Also, I knew my eyesight would change and it has, and now, despite contact lenses, I do strange facial expressions to read small print. A visit to my optometrist is due. She is also a friend, so she should be kind about my aging eyes,
But what I actually want to talk about is the things they don’t warn you about.
First off: wrinkled sagging eyelids.
Somehow, I never expected my eyelids to age. I thought they’d be exempt for some reason. They’re not. In fact, they are particularly prone to wrinkles and crepeyness. I try to keep my eyes open extra wide to compensate but that makes my forehead wrinkles worse.
Second: cracky knees
My right knee sounds a gun shot every time I stand up from a sitting position. It. Is. Not. Sexy. (We won’t even talk about what my knees look like.)
Related to this, I can no longer sit cross legged for any significant amount of time. My joints ache. Oh hell, I’ve turned into a person whose joints ache.
Third, or is that fourth – I have one of those dangley things on my neck that the character in Boston Legal had a fetish about. Which would be all very well, except I don’t think my husband shares that fetish. I have started taking selfies from strange, neck flattering angles. With sunglasses on to hide the eyelid, laugh-line situation:
And as for the state of my heels. Honest to goodness, I don’t know if it is age or if I actually have a disorder where you dehydrate and crack up from your feet up, but it is not pretty. I might need to have weekly pedicures, and I’m not really in that level of grooming league. . .
It’s a depressing business, this aging thing. But from tomorrow, for the next 366 days (leap year, people), I am going to remember that I am two 21 year olds. And I’ll pretend that the sound of my right knee cracking is simply the champagne corks that form the soundtrack to my life. . .