My eyes were closed. But I could still feel him staring at me from his side of the bed.
The husband. He probably wanted to touch my swimsuit areas again.
“What?” I said, opening my eyes.
He continued gazing at me, intently.
“We just did that the other day. It’s 9:30 for nut’s sake. I’m beat,” I said.
He continued looking at my face. Earnestly. Wistfully.
“Seriously. You know we have to get up at 4:30. Not tonight,” I said.
“I’m just looking at you,” he said. Wistfully. Earnestly.
*Stare*
“I told you I’m tired. What are you looking at?” I said.
“The age spots on your forehead,” he said.
Nice. No more swimsuit areas for you, pal!
I rolled over in bed and faced my nightstand. But there was more proof of my rapid decline, my foot in the grave. The top drawer, perpetually open for easy access, holds my sad little Walmart fountain of youth.
There's the Shea butter hand cream, because my hands have the texture of an 88-year-old elephant, and the Vick's Vapo Rub I dab under my nose to help me sleep. Nestled beside that are my +1.25 reading glasses. Without these, I have to hold books at a foot's length.
Then there's the retinol gel that Imay or may not have spent the college fund on purchased from an illegal? online Indian pharmacy. There's your standard lotions, SPF lotions, day lotions and night lotions, your alpha hydroxies, your soothing gels, your pore-reducers, your exfoliators, your tone enhancers and your anti-oxidants…
And don't get me started on the eye creams. They have their own drawer.
It's all part of the mounting evidence pointing to my impending demise. Optimism: You're at the wrong blog. Still.
And when the husband and the nightstand aren't reminding me of my mortality, my daughter's happy to help, as she did the other day:
“Ack, I feel hot. Is it hot in here? Again? Jeez, I’m hot,” I said.
“Mom, you’re pre-Metamucil,” she said.
"I think you mean peri-menopausal," I said.
Pre-Metamucil. Indeed. Go to your room, child!
The husband. He probably wanted to touch my swimsuit areas again.
“What?” I said, opening my eyes.
He continued gazing at me, intently.
“We just did that the other day. It’s 9:30 for nut’s sake. I’m beat,” I said.
He continued looking at my face. Earnestly. Wistfully.
“Seriously. You know we have to get up at 4:30. Not tonight,” I said.
“I’m just looking at you,” he said. Wistfully. Earnestly.
*Stare*
“I told you I’m tired. What are you looking at?” I said.
“The age spots on your forehead,” he said.
Nice. No more swimsuit areas for you, pal!
I rolled over in bed and faced my nightstand. But there was more proof of my rapid decline, my foot in the grave. The top drawer, perpetually open for easy access, holds my sad little Walmart fountain of youth.
Then there's the retinol gel that I
And don't get me started on the eye creams. They have their own drawer.
It's all part of the mounting evidence pointing to my impending demise. Optimism: You're at the wrong blog. Still.
And when the husband and the nightstand aren't reminding me of my mortality, my daughter's happy to help, as she did the other day:
“Ack, I feel hot. Is it hot in here? Again? Jeez, I’m hot,” I said.
“Mom, you’re pre-Metamucil,” she said.
"I think you mean peri-menopausal," I said.
Pre-Metamucil. Indeed. Go to your room, child!
Sigh.
It's not just my body failing. The mind - it goes.
Just like a few weeks ago, I went in to work with two different-colored socks on my feet. Didn't notice until noon, when I changed into my tennis shoes. Matching pairs of socks? Just a suggestion. That's how I roll. Apparently.
One sock, two sock, black sock, blue sock. Whatevs, man.
The week before that, I wore entirely different earrings to work. One diamond stud, one multi-colored heart. Again, I didn't notice until the afternoon, reaching up to adjust the earring backs. I was wondering why people were smiling at me all day. Thought maybe I was looking really pretty.
Shot that to hell. Clearly, they were smiling at the crackhead senior citizen.
Friday of that same week, hours after my lunchtime workout, I noticed that my shirt's tag wasn't itching my back as much as usual. Yeah. Tags don't bother you when your top is on inside-out and they're hanging out the back of the blouse.
And not long ago, rushing and distracted before work, I showed up at my downtown, professional office in these:
And they aren't even MY flip-flops. They're my daughter's.
I think.
My life has become a series of wardrobe malfunctions. And the scary thing is? I don't care anymore.
I don't care if my socks and earrings don't match. It doesn't bother me that I wore my sweater inside-out for several hours. What does it matter if I wear someone else's Dollar Tree flip-flops to work?
Nope. Honey badger don't care. I certainly don't give a shit.
Clearly, it won't be long before I'm at thecrappiest finest nursing home the kids can afford, sitting in the dining hall, scooping up scrambled eggs with my hands. Wearing stained Hanes Her Way sweatpants. Inside-out.
I don't mind the concept of getting old. I told ya'all before - Betty White is badass. But the wrinkly, physical reality of aging - that's what sucks.
You youngsters out there - I know you're laughing at my downfall. "Ha ha ha," say you. Go ahead, yuck it up, punks, because you're right behind me. If you're lucky.
It's not just my body failing. The mind - it goes.
Just like a few weeks ago, I went in to work with two different-colored socks on my feet. Didn't notice until noon, when I changed into my tennis shoes. Matching pairs of socks? Just a suggestion. That's how I roll. Apparently.
One sock, two sock, black sock, blue sock. Whatevs, man.
The week before that, I wore entirely different earrings to work. One diamond stud, one multi-colored heart. Again, I didn't notice until the afternoon, reaching up to adjust the earring backs. I was wondering why people were smiling at me all day. Thought maybe I was looking really pretty.
Shot that to hell. Clearly, they were smiling at the crackhead senior citizen.
Friday of that same week, hours after my lunchtime workout, I noticed that my shirt's tag wasn't itching my back as much as usual. Yeah. Tags don't bother you when your top is on inside-out and they're hanging out the back of the blouse.
And not long ago, rushing and distracted before work, I showed up at my downtown, professional office in these:
I think.
My life has become a series of wardrobe malfunctions. And the scary thing is? I don't care anymore.
I don't care if my socks and earrings don't match. It doesn't bother me that I wore my sweater inside-out for several hours. What does it matter if I wear someone else's Dollar Tree flip-flops to work?
Nope. Honey badger don't care. I certainly don't give a shit.
Clearly, it won't be long before I'm at the
I don't mind the concept of getting old. I told ya'all before - Betty White is badass. But the wrinkly, physical reality of aging - that's what sucks.
You youngsters out there - I know you're laughing at my downfall. "Ha ha ha," say you. Go ahead, yuck it up, punks, because you're right behind me. If you're lucky.
Time is an equal opportunity asshole.
And aside from the age spots and the hot flashes and the failing vision and the wrinkles and and the joint pain and the insomnia and the and the mood swings, I'm in fantastic shape...
And aside from the age spots and the hot flashes and the failing vision and the wrinkles and and the joint pain and the insomnia and the and the mood swings, I'm in fantastic shape...
...for a woman who's pre-Metamucil.
