“I FEEL A DRAFT!” And Other Charms of Aging
In the final, dwindling weeks before my 30th birthday nearly two years ago, my mother took sick pleasure in reminding me – over and over again – how difficult it was for her to handle turning 30. “I took it really hard,” she said, in a tone usually reserved for funeral homes/cemeteries/script readings for Telemundo novelas.”It took me months to get over it. I felt so old. I couldn’t believe I was thirty.”
“Treinta? NO! NO! No puedo ser tan viejo!”
[By the way, doing a Google image search on Telemundo novelas brings up a WHOLE LOTTA shirtless men. I’m just sayin’.]
So, with my mother’s constant grim-reapering, I was kind of freaked out about turning thirty. It’s not that I was dreading it, I was just afraid that I would experience the crushing after-effects that my mother did, and would spend several months railing against the fact that I was getting older.
No one likes an Ungraceful Ager.
But you know what? It never happened. My birthday came and went, and everything was copasetic. In fact, I noticed that things actually improved after I turned thirty. It was like a switch flipped, and suddenly I was much more relaxed about things (I hear Brad laughing), I stopped caring so much about what other people think, and I felt infinitely more comfortable in my own skin. Reading over that last sentence, I guess what I’m trying to say is: Being thirty is like being really, really, beautifully high.
Clearly thirty years old…and trippin’ his nuts off.
Of course, there have been other things I’ve noticed since turning thirty. Like how motherfucking stiff I am after riding in the car for a few hours, how easily I can get hungover (and heartburn) from a measly couple of Jack & cokes, how I’m rarely awake after 11pm on a weeknight – all those little changes that start when you’re still young and get continually more exaggerated with each passing year, and then before you know it you’re 85 years old, slathered in Ben Gay, and taking your dinners of diluted broth while watching The Wheel at 4:30 in the afternoon.
I’d like to solve the puzzle…but can someone change my corn pads first?
Unfortunately, there is one particular problem of mine that has already advanced to geriatric proportions. It’s actually been an issue since I was merely in my free-wheeling, binge-drinking early twenties, and since entering my thirties, it has only gotten worse. Internet, I am always, always, ALWAYS FUCKING COLD.
I have often wished I could wear this to work.
Yes, I am always cold. At home, at work, in the car, at the movies, in the mall, in the airport, on the plane, at the library, at the store, in the sauna, at the bonfire, in the ninth circle of hell: I’M COLD. I am forced to layer my clothing 12 months out of the year, I rarely have feeling in my fingertips, and DON’T EVEN TALK TO ME about the summertime, when every building on the face of the planet cranks the A/C sky-high, and I have to tote a sweater and a stiff neck with me until they finally turn that shit off in November.
And then there was the time I entered the frozen foods aisle without a down-filled jacket.
I know I’m not the only one who suffers from the full-body permafrost; my sister is pretty much the same way. In fact, I know a lot of women who have the same complaints as I do – except for women going through The Menopause. Like the one in my yoga class who bitched at the instructor to OPEN THE WINDOWS even though it was THE MIDDLE OF JANUARY and not all of us had the buffer of flaring hormones to protect our toes from going numb, but hey, feeling my body stiffen from the frigid breeze really added an extra level of relaxation, so thanks, Lava Woman, I owe you one.
Was also denied a bank loan.
As you can tell, I get pretty pissy when it comes to the issue of having goosebumps for 99% of my day. It just seems like the world is made for people whose internal temperature rivals that of an overcooked Hot Pocket. And the older I get, the crankier (and colder) I get. It really hit home a few weeks ago when Brad & I were at a restaurant, and the hostess seated us at a table close to an air vent. As we sat down and felt the slight draft of cool air, Brad said to me, “Is that going to bother you? Do you want to move?” And Internet, of course I wanted to move, and I was just about to tell Brad as much until I remembered the many, many, MANY times this very scene – right down to the questions Brad asked me – was played out for me in restaurants across the country. Except the Perpetually Cold One? Was my 72-year old grandma.
Has a constant room temperature of 82 degrees, closes at 6:30, and makes a FABULOUS prune-tini!
Now, I loved my grandma. Adored her. Am proud to have lots of things in common with her. But I would not like to be mimicking her more…age-induced traits before my time.
The more I think about it, the more I really am just a crotchety old hag waiting to happen. I’m always cold, my stomach is always rebelling against something or another, and when I complain, it’s mostly about constipation or why those damn teenagers can’t turn their music down when I’m trying to nap.
Come on, Brad, you know you want to HIT THISSSS
Actually, maybe the reason I feel so comfortable now that I’m getting older is that I’m just an old person waiting to happen. The arthritic old bag inside me is just fighting (…weakly) to get out! She longs for the day where she can act outwardly cranky and unreasonable in public and people won’t hold her accountable because they’ll think she’s too old to help herself! She pines for those lazy mornings sitting at her local McDonald’s and sipping her Senior-Discounted 25-cent cup of coffee! She looks forward to forcing small children to kiss her on the cheek that is also inhabited by an unusually hairy mole!
So let us embrace aging, Internet. Sure, it’ll suck when you have to rely on your snotty grandson to drive you to the store for your no-salt potato chips and sugar-free hard candies, but on the upside, he can’t make a fuss if you shit in his car.
AGING! It’s…mostly better than being dead.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.