Getting old sucks.
I have heard my parents say that for years. Well, maybe not that it “sucks,” but variations.
“My knees aren’t what they used to be.”
” I wish I could move as fast as I used to.”
“Remember Car 54 Where Are You?”
My getting older hit me a few months ago when my mom mentioned something. She told me that she was my age now when we first moved to Chicago. She was 43 when we moved here.
And I thought my mom was “old” back then.
Umm, I am that age.
I mean no disrespect to my parents. I mean, all kids think their parents are old. But I am starting to feel it. More with each year that passes on the calendar.
For years, I thought I had cheated age. I have always been told I look a lot younger than my age. I still do.
I get gasps when I tell people I am old enough to qualify for AARP in seven years. I gasp when I realize I am old enough to qualify for AARP in seven years.
Slowly, I am noticing the changes. The weight that just doesn’t budge. I could eat a brownie a day back in my 20s and not gain a pound. Now I just walk by the Little Debbie end cap at Wal-Mart and I feel my cellulite shake.
I used the word tomfoolery the other day. In a natural sentence. And didn’t flinch.
I was riding in the car last week and saw the under my arm loose chicken skin for the very first time.
I wanted to cry.
WHO IN THE HELL TOOK OVER MY BODY???
But there are changes I am really starting to embrace. I just don’t care about certain things any more.
I used to get so upset about hurting people’s feelings, saying the wrong thing, wanting to be accepted.
Not so much.
It’s not that I am more insensitive, it’s just that I have learned to value my own self over what I feel like I am putting out there. You don’t have to like me and if you don’t, who cares!
I look good in scarves. I do. I didn’t when I was in my 20s but now, I can totally carry off that look.
When I am in a public place, people call me ma’am.
I am down with that.
Some people get really upset by that. I don’t. I earned that title. 43 years of hard work, I deserve respect. Yes. Sir.
80s music is cool again. Because it is considered retro. That’s fine by me.
As long as you keep spinnin’ Dead or Alive on the lite FM station, I am good. There is nothing quite like hearing the song you used to dance to at those “parties” that mom and dad didn’t know about while wiping your 5-year-old’s nose in the car on the way to pick up your 13-year-old from soccer practice.
It’s all good.
Pass the creamed potatoes and turn up the heat on the way out. I feel a draft.