So I mentioned that my sister is having a baby. This will of course bestow upon me the title of Aunt, for the first time ever in my life. Something about this term is making me feel old, like decrepitly old.
Now you’re probably saying to yourself, But redhead you have two kids of your own. Doesn’t that make you feel old? To this I answer in the most serious tone possible: No. Having two kids does not make me feel old. Having two kids make me feel tired. But now on top of the title of mother add the title of aunt, and suddenly I feel tired AND old. It's a very crappy combination in case you didn't know.
Needless to say, the weekend I spent with my sister celebrating the impending birth of her daughter was bittersweet. She had that pregnancy glow going on. And I had my “laugh lines” going on. I remembered when I was her age (some, ack, eight years ago), and it finally dawned on me that I am freaking old. At least more freaking old than a lot of people.
Sometimes I can delude myself into thinking otherwise because I’m fairly small in stature, and about the width of a pole. So in that way I’m quite childlike. I also laugh at inappropriate times and places. And I burp. All in an effort to keep my effervescence of youth. Yes. That’s why I do such things.
But then I see my hips, my birthing hips that don’t quite fit the rest of the childlike me. Then I see my lackluster skin and the crevices that are forming on my forehead and the corners of my mouth. The stray hairs that pop up on my chin. The sun spots. Oh the sun spots. I think that’s what they are anyway. I can’t wash them off, that much I know. Then I catch sight of my less than elastic stomach skin that once stretched its little heart out to harbor my offspring, all while trading it’s smoothness for stretch marks within stretch marks. And then it all just becomes very depressing because I’m nearing a different age bracket and I liked the bracket I was in.
But darn it all, this is where the redhead in me turns fiery. I refuse to let something like age depress me. There are so many other things in the world more depress-worthy. Like Harrison Ford and that earring of his. That is legitimately worthy of some rocky road.
So what did I do? I marched myself straight to the nearest Target and did something I swore I would never do. I tried on a pair of skinny jeans and bought them. GASP. I know! Skinny jeans? Possibly the most moronic thing created by the fashion trolls? Surely pants that make skinny legs look even more like chicken legs, or make fuller legs look even more like fuller legs are pants that were never meant to see the light of day. The insanity! But, but please listen to my but, I have to admit when I am wrong. These pants are so comfortable and dreamy.
Maybe that’s because instead of going skin tight I went a size bigger. A younger person would not have had the same genius idea. Therein lies the wisdom of my age. I've learned that when in doubt, go bigger. Plus they make my butt look semi-existent.
I'm pretty proud of myself seeing as how I had the guts to break one of my own rules. This is a huge breakthrough for a perfectionist such as myself.
I was so high on life that later that night I broke another rule and didn’t wear a bra to bed, or the next night either. Because who needs one? They’re just bosoms. Bosoms can’t buy me love. And where we’re going we don’t need bosoms, at least not perky ones. Ponder on that for a minute.
I’m breaking all the rules peoples. Watch out.
Would this be considered a pre-mid life crisis?