I am 20 years past 17. Officially. Today. Thanks for showing up, Birthday.
Another Birthday
I loved 17.
I never really thought about 20 years past 17 when I was 17. I just thought about boys. And college. Boys at college. I didn’t even appreciate glitter.
I guess to some extent, we do get better with age?
Psht.
For the record, I married a boy from college… I wasn’t 17 then either. I was 22. *mathmathmath* That was almost 15 years ago.
How did I get closer to being 50 than 15? Not that anything is wrong with 50 – for other people. *eyes crossing*
The years… they deepen my “smile” lines. Highlight my aching joints. The years they laugh and point as more frequently I realize, “I can’t do THAT like THAT anymore…”
I mean I CAN. I am like The Little Engine That Could. Except I run on glitter, not coal. It all just looks a lot different and may take longer these days…
Who knew I would grow such a passion for orthopedic inserts and glucosamine… Vitamin B, thyroid medication and the never ending quest for hormone balance?
Who. Knew.
But you know what AGING?… I got glitter.
I got ‘tude.
I got 3 kids who make fun of me. Stretch marks, “bat wings”… Aaaand yes, I got a few achy joints.
You know what’s even youthier, tho…. Birthday? I have photo editing tools. That’s right. With the power of photo editing apps … I. May. Never. Age.
Smile lines. Yay.
Some people call the developing lines on one’s face a “road map” of sorts. Of living and loving and more living.
I have a driver’s license that expires today. I am already planning what weight I will give. See what aging does to me? It makes me scheme.
I have developing wrinkles. I wear a retainer at night. I even bought denture cleaner. For my retainer, but still. It’s another step.
I find that lotion has been come a dear and treasured friend. Hydration!
I find I must carry more “stuff”. “Camouflage”, if you will.
This is war, you know. All warriors dress in camo.
Especially those of us waging war against facial road maps and whathaveyou.
I am not a good sport about this “aging thing”.
Not. At. All.
If there were a way to slice this age progression with a knife, I would. Oh wait. I’m kidding. I would never get plastic surgery.
I know. I should embrace my womanhood and love the wrinkles, stretch marks, sags… all evidence of a life well-lived.
Or evidence of too many cookies.
Whatever.
I have to go get ready. I have to do my hair. Put on war paint. And lie to the DMV about how much I weigh.
