It’s an ungodly hour of the morning and I am standing in the kitchen working my tongue around the chalky disposition of my third antacid tablet. Stumbling sleepily back to the corner cabinet where the remedies for all sorts of ailments are stored, I return the well-used bottle and grasp my lower back to give myself a firm massage on the aching muscles. I have a vision of what I must look like, scowl and then produce a wry smile.
This is life in my mid-forties.
I’m not sure I’ll ever come to terms with aging. I think about it all the time, I write about it a lot. I still can’t believe this is me, this is my body that aches and creaks. I am the fat, frumpy, flabby, middle-aged lady half heartedly trying to feel younger than my 44 years. I have a vague suspicion that I look ridiculous in my checkered Vans, the nose ring left over from my thirties, and a bright pink streak in my graying hair.
What’s that saying? Youth is wasted on the young? Ain’t that the frickin’ truth. I love the mental part of getting older. Well, it’s a double-edged sword of wicked irony really. There is an IDGAF’ness to it, coupled with the feelings I just described in the prior paragraphs. Now I’m just talking myself in circles. Whatever.
The TUMS are working now, and an old lady needs her sleep.