Here’s the thing: I feel old. Not decrepit–sign-me-up-for-an AARP-membership-eat dinner-at-4pm-drive-20-below-the-speed- limit–give-everyone-a-dollar-for-their-birthday old, mind you, but the other kind. More of the Holy-shit-I’m-27-my-own-age-startles-me-sometimes-it’s-like-I-was-21-and-then-blinked-and-I’m-in-my-late-20’s-and-I-have-two-kids-where-the-hell-did-the-last-decade-go old.
Not helping this out is talking with the bestie about our 10 year high school reunion next summer (!!!!!!!). Nor did the grocery store cashier failing to ask for my ID when I bought wine Monday night help. Especially since he was wearing a button that proclaimed UNDER 40? WE CARD! in giant bold effing letters. But the biggest thing of all? The biggest hit to my delicate post-quarter-life crisis ego? I have a wrinkle on my boobs. My boobs! What.the.fuck. I looked down today at the water park to make sure they were still securely in my starting-to-get-too-big swimsuit (cruel how when you lose weight the first place it drops is from where you don’t want it to) and there it was in all it’s glory, shining in the Midwestern sunlight: A wrinkle. It is by no means my first wrinkle. Or even my second or third. I smile a lot so I’ve got smile lines on my face. Whatever. That’s fine. That’s why they make Oil of Olay (and also why my mother put some in my stocking two Christmases ago). All I could think of was those middle aged women with their leathery looking chesticles and I flipped out. I’m not ready for that. It’s bad enough gravity has started to work it’s
magic voodoo on them, that if I’m going out and want any oomph, I have to wear not only a push-up bra but also a spandex-like cami with a built-in bra. I don’t need to add wrinkles. The only crease I want is cleavage, like I had when I was 21 and used that to my advantage (i.e. to get drinks). Sigh. To quote my step-grandma, getting older’s a bitch, ain’t it?