How O-Old are You?

I recently came across an essay I had posted on my old web page titled "Thoughts on Thirty".  I posted it in the summer of 2004 praising the coolness of turning thirty years old. 

Thirty was the light at the end of the tunnel for much of my later twenties.  I was perturbed that everyone thought I was younger than I was, I was growing tired of showing my ID at R-rated movies and I was just plain convinced that world didn't take me seriously enough.  Oh yeah... and that thirty was going to fix all of that!

I'm looking at the essay again right now and I see that I had drafted up a list of pros and cons about that hallowed age.  The cons pretty much consisted of too many (necessary) bottles of products on my dresser top and that "My cholesterol level, hypoglycemia and GI tract are no longer what they used to be."

The pros list included that "I'm guilt-free in finding out that being an aunt is much easier than being a mom", that it's easier to say "no" now, blah blah blah, some spiritual stuff... and then the real kicker: "I think my body is better than ever... looking that is. Things fall into place girls... trust me! And, then they'll fall out of place, but that will be my 'Thoughts on Forty' entry."

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!  Excuse me while I ROFL for a minute.

***INSERT ELEVATOR MUZAK WHILE THIS BLOG IS ON HOLD***

Ooh, look at me. I'm thirty and so sexy!

[Wipe the tears.]  Okay, I think I caught my breath again. 

I don't know when it was that my body "fell into to place", or for how many days that lasted...  But seven years later, I can assure you that that fall was a continuous decline.  I don't know how it's possible, but my butt has slid a full foot down the back of my legs in the last decade.  If it could have once been referred to as a nice "basket-ball shaped" backside, it has since deflated in the garage from lack of use.  I once could fill a pair a jeans, now I need to cram stuff into my pockets to get any kind of shape back there.  (Unless we're counting "droopy" as a shape... then I can safely say that I'm shapely all over.)

Being thirty and complaining about aging products cracks me up too.  I was unwrinkled enough to brave this haircut that same year:

Ooh! Lookit the little ones!

If I attempted that look now people might mistake me for a chemo patient.  Once the forehead creases, the eyes puff out and the complexion becomes more see-through than tan, it's officially time to rule out the pixie cut. 

Aging is a curious thing.  It takes awhile to get there but, boy when it comes, there's no missing it!  (Or stopping it!)  I keep antacids on my nightstand these days.  I can get heartburn just by watching the Food Network.  I have literally pulled a muscle just by washing my hair.  Nothing makes you feel older than having someone ask you, "You have a stiff neck.  What did you do?" and having to answer honestly by saying, "I looked to the left too early this morning."  If someone had warned me that I could one day harm myself simply by turning my head, I wouldn't have rushed into this decade so quickly.

My knees are a swollen mess.  I have bodily functions I was too ladylike to have in my twenties. I have no muscle tone.  Even my skinny parts jiggle.  The nine-year-old is currently obsessed with, what he refers to as my "chubby elbow".  He's amazed by it's stretchability and likes to squeeze it, tug on it like Silly Putty and pick at it's dry skin.  Call me crazy, but I usually allow it.  I'll take whatever physical affection he's still handing out at that age.  (But, I remind him that it's impolite to refer to any part of a woman's body as chubby.)  It's also getting harder and harder to cover up the gray.  Dark hair dye doesn't stick to it as well and so I'm counting down the years until I have to go full-on Betty White blonde.  What're you gonna do? 

So, I turn thirty-seven tomorrow.  I officially have to refer to myself as being in my late-thirties now.  But, guess what?  I no longer get carded at the movies (maybe because I'm usually only buying tickets to G-rated fare these days.)  I not only have learned to say "no", but I can openly disagree with people and still maintain their fondness.  Even though I'll admit to the jigglies and the cellulite, I simply have stopped caring.  If it's hot outside, I'm wearing shorts and a tank top.  I don't care if that exposes my chubby elbow or my dimply legs.  I don't have eyes in the backs of my thighs!  So what if my farmer's tan starts four inches below my hem.  That's your viewing problem, not mine! 

However droopy my body parts, I find it's actually easier to buy pants that fit these days.  When I was curvy and solid, no matter how in-shape I was, it was hard to find a pair of jeans fitting in both the waist and the hips.  Everything was firm, there was no working around it.  Now, I can just stuff the spongy parts into whatever area of the pants they fit into.  Half a size off?  Just tuck in the muffin top.  All parts are now moldable.  Hip hip hooray!

At 37, I worry 200% less.  Other people's drama bores me and  I have little concern for what other people think about me.  I'm as content as I've ever been.  Thirty-seven is one big exhale!  You may steal my body parts one by one, Old Age, but my happiness is mine to keep.

No matter what I may have stated seven years ago, thirty ended up being just another year.  No matter how much I was looking forward to it, it took thirty years to get there and then lasted only 12 short months.  I may have thought I was the bomb, but I now have seven extra years of wisdom grown on me.

I'm also now smart enough to know that if we're going to get greedy and start wishing for bodies of the past, I think I'll opt for twenty-one instead.  Even J Lo's trainer couldn't get me back those legs!