I Might Be Old
Here I sit, nursing a mild hangover after drinking 3, yes 3, beers with friends last night. I had plans to run this morning. Now I have decided that there are no plans beyond drinking this cup of coffee.
I suppose I must face it: I am getting older.
I went to the doctor several months ago and ended up seeing the PA who practices with my doctor, a first for me. As I shared my reasons for being there, he interrupted me to ask if I was “still cycling?” I stammered “yes,” and waited until I was safely in my car before I burst into tears.
Still? What did that mean? Wouldn’t I always be cycling? Uhhh…I guess not.
Nothing brings that fact closer to home than watching an Indiana Jones marathon with my son, followed by an internet search for Harrison Ford, and gasping in horror at how old he looks now.
I am sure he thinks he looks great.
I definitely have lines around my eyes, and I seem to have a weird perma-scowl going on between my eyebrows. I get the attraction to Botox, and plastic surgery. Believe me, if I can afford it I have every intention of having some surgical body sculpting done. I do not have that “mother pride” where I marvel at every stretch mark as a symbol of my reproductive abilities. Instead, I am frustrated by my body’s refusal to cooperate. I lost the weight, I exercise. Why won’t you work with me, body?
I assume it’s my age, my genetics.
I don’t fear getting old(er). I actually look forward to maturing. I assumed, incorrectly, that something would change in my brain once I turned into an adult that would make me, you know, a grown up. But that hasn’t happened. Despite how I look on the outside, inside I still feel like a flighty, giggly, teenager. I still laugh at fart jokes, love to swear, and am drawn to childish things like pretty cupcakes and the color purple. Does that change with age?
I don’t know, maybe I am confusing maturity with sophistication. I don’t know if I will ever be sophisticated.
Educated, yes. Classy? Nope.
Hungover on 3 beers is not classy or sophisticated, or even immature.
It’s just old. I might be old.