Things No One Told Me Would Happen to My Body
I have this friend Peri. I will straight up tell you she’s a horrible person. Peri is planning a visit but she’s flakey. She just kind of stands down the street waving at me. Her last name is Menopause. Peri Menopause. Oh? You know her too?
There are things that are glorious about middle age. You have wisdom. You feel comfortable with who you are. You can afford vacations. However, there are things that people just didn’t tell me would happen as I aged. I’m not pleased.
I am totally pissed at my 8th grade P.E. teacher who I feel should reemerge in my life and pull me and all of my friends aside like she did back then. When we turn 40, we should get a mid-life version of the puberty talk. I don’t even care if you make me watch a lame film at this point. A warning just would have been nice. Thanks for nothing, Mrs. Eubanks.
Everything gets gray.
What the hell is happening to my eyebrows and what do I even do with them? Do I pluck this gray crime against nature? Do I pencil over it? Can my hair stylist dye it? I don’t even know. I feel like I am going to wake up one day and have totally crossed the line into Whatever Happened to Baby Jane eyebrows. It’s a real fear.
When I say everything gets gray, I mean it. Every. Thing. Don’t say I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry. Like, really sorry.
I still break out like a teenager.
I’m 45 and I own Clearasil. I will tell you this: if I’m going to look like a teenager, I am going to act like one. If you need me, I’ll be in my bed until 11:00am with my phone watching tutorials on YouTube to figure out how to cover my middle age acne. And what to do about my eyebrows. And cat videos. Lots of cat videos.
Being with me is emotional Russian Roulette.
I go from being a ray of god damn sunshine to wanting to stab people in 3.2 seconds. I feel like an inventory of sharp objects should be done on a regular basis. Just remove the pokey things and replace them with Milk Duds.
These mood swings are like a monsoon. They come, wreak havoc, blow a bunch of hot air around and then they’re gone. If only there was an iPhone alert that would go off to signal us and everyone around us to duck for cover. Anyone know a good app developer?
Southern migration happens rapidly.
This is not necessarily a surprise.
However, it is happening so fast that I feel like I want to draw lines on my body with Sharpie to track its progress. Kind of like how you marked your kid’s height in the wall. It’s alarming.
The moment I had my daughter, everything moved about a 1/4 to a 1/2 inch. South. I keep telling her that, once she’s out of college, it’s her responsibility to pay to have things put back in the right place. I mean, we fix what we break, right?
Nope. Don’t even want to talk about it. Go call your P.E. teacher.
Jowls? We get jowls?
Excellent. I was hoping that for Christmas I would get to start looking like George C. Scott when he played Scrooge. This is exactly what I wanted!
I used to use an app called Marco Polo to keep in touch with a group of similarly aged girlfriends. If you have no idea what this app is, my daughter calls it Snapchat for old people. It requires you to watch yourself in video form without any fancy filter. Not. Good.
We spent an inordinate amount of time leaving each other video messages poking and pulling and tugging at our faces. Jowls are the leading concern among us and yet, not one Nixon impression…
I would love my body anyway.
At the end of the day, all we can do is laugh. We can’t stop this crap so why worry about it. I’ll love my body anyway. Sometimes she feels like a stranger. Sometimes she’s as comfortable as an old sweater. She’s completely mine and I love her. I’m still amazed at what she’s capable of and the brain inside this body has allowed me to accept every inch of it. That, my friends, is the glory of getting older.