In a little over two weeks, I will turn 35. Which, on the surface, is no big deal. It’s not 40. Or 50. Just…35.
I will officially be in my mid-30s. And a “high-risk” pregnancy (if I were to decide to subject myself to that again). But I won’t be over the hill—or even at its summit. In fact, assuming I take after my mom’s side of the family, I will probably live to be 90 or so—meaning I’ve got another ten years before I even start rolling down the slope toward old age and death.
And I? Have always made fun of people who are sensitive about their age. This past December, when my husband turned 35 and was mildly bothered by it, I told him to “get over it” in no uncertain terms. Yeah. I’m a peach.
But Internet? I am bothered. And not just a little bit.
Thirty five feels old. Old, I tell you.
This morning, while analyzing my face in the mirror, I noticed the start of a new wrinkle. One of those laugh lines—at least I think that’s what they call them. You know the ones I’m talking about. The grooves that extend in an arc between your nose and your jaw? The ones that eventually become engraved in your face, evident whether you’re laughing or no? Yeah. I have one of those.
What’s next? The collapsing of the skin under my chin into the jowly goodness so many older people sport? The very thought makes me want to cry.
And? And I have white hairs. Not gray. White.
How the f*&^ did this happen?
I don’t feel old. On the contrary, I’m just now starting to feel like an adult. One capable of paying bills on time, hanging laundry in closets and raising a daughter to be something other than a wild animal. I am not yet ready to be deemed “middle aged.”
I think I just need a good moisturizer. And maybe some Botox? No, I would never do that (I don’t think).
But then, I never thought I’d have a kid either. So I guess you should never say never. Or at least I shouldn’t.
Anybody have any anti-aging tips for me? Or a good moisturizer to recommend? Or some compliments to dish out? I’m not feeling picky.