On aging (some more)

I was about to make a left on Temple when Richard Marx came on. “Damn Angelia, it’s been too long,” I said out loud turning up the volume as the light turned yellow, then red, and I pulled to a stop. For a second it was 1987, summer, and I could feel a warm breeze on my face. Then a skateboard hit the pavement snapping me out of it and two guys in their 20’s zoomed in front of my car to cross the street. I looked at them longingly, I bet their knees don’t ache. I wonder if they know who Richard Marx is. Or Sting. Do they know who Sting is? I bet he’s just some guy on a Police t-shirt to them.

The light turned green and I zipped across the intersection, turning my car toward home. My mind quiet for just a moment.

When I pulled in the driveway I kept the song on blast, wailing along at the top of my lungs until it finished. Then I shut the car off and stared straight ahead.

“This is really happening,” I thought, “I’m getting old.”

I tried Snapchat over the weekend and to be completely honest have no idea what the purpose of it is. Why can’t I find anybody on there? What’s the difference between a story and a picture? How do you share it? Should this be taking 20 minutes? I need a nap.

Then it hits me, I’m my mother back in ’83 trying to figure out the VCR.

It IS happening. Even though I’ve always known it would, I can’t believe it actually is.

I’m having a difficult time dressing my body type, something I’ve never struggled with before. <Yep, it’s happening.> Everything looks, so, like everything I’ve worn before. Wait. That’s because I have worn it before – in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. So THIS is what my mother was talking about all those times she said, “I used to wear one just like that and grandma would do my hair in such and such a way…,” her voice trailing off as she stared wistfully across the room.

I don’t want to wear Talbot’s.

No offense Talbot’s,  I just don’t want to wear you. 

After my aunt died in January my hair turned silver. I mean sil-ver. As in more silver than brunette.

Huh. This is a real thing, after all.

We still don’t have chairs around the kitchen table in our new place because every chair I’m drawn to looks like something I had as a kid and it is freaking me right out. Is this what aging is? Everything comes full circle?

I think I had a hot flash the other day. Or maybe it was anxiety. Because this is all very anxiety inducing you know. <—Consider this is a heads up, all of you behind me in this game of life. Batten down the hatches. Gird your loins. Commence hydrating skin.

So I guess what I’m saying is, I’m in unchartered territory. As it turns out, who you are in your 30’s is just a mature version of who you were in your 20’s. You have this moment of feeling like you might have it all figured out. But then 40 hits and Nope.

Forty turns you on your head. To be precise, 41. Because when you turn 40 you have a year’s reprieve where nothing breaks down and you think, “Whew, I made it! Everything is still in place and I can carry on with my 30’s self.” But then one day the dewy glow on your skin disappears and you can hear your dad’s chuckle in your head every morning when you get out of bed and your knees crackle (you told him it’d never happen to you when he told you at 40 that he missed what it was like to be ache free in the morning) and you wonder why you weren’t happy with your beautiful original hair color while you still had it.

So to all you 35 -40 year olds: go back to brunette while you still can.

Consider this a love note from me to you.

And just for old times, here’s Richard. #shedatear

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