Last night, I was tucking the girls in and my four year old reached up and touched my face, “You are young,” she said, “but you do have those lines by your eyes.”
This is my thirties.
I am still young-ish, but I do have the lines around my eyes. Dammit.
I’ll tell you what else I have…
Hair. Hair is sprouting everywhere you guys. I’m getting a new chin hair per month. Pretty soon I’m going to have a better beard than my husband. What once was a small crop of pube-overgrowth has turned into a wooly mammoth situation. I have to shave my thighs now. AS IF I DIDN’T ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH TO DO WITH MY LIFE.
A hangover after one Mike’s. Dear young ones, yes, this is a thing. Groggy, headache, zero motivation…the results of a lot less poor choices than you might think. Nope. Just one, singular, alcohol flavored Koolaid I found at the bottom of my parents’ ice chest.
Saggy boobs. I am guessing that this is because I grew behemoth nursing breasts. Normally I am a size A on a good day, so a DDD was a lot for the little ladies to handle. Now we have a deflated birthday balloon situation. It is every bit as sad as it sounds. My body is a memorial of better times and wasted dreams. Luckily my months of boob-glory also included crying infants, bras that smelled of spoiled milk, and mastitis…just to balance out my overwhelming sex appeal.
My friends and I are looking for a Groupon for boob jobs; let me know if you hear of anything.
I am forced to make healthy choices. Sometimes it is truly a tragedy. For example, this gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free bar thing. I bought this out of a case full of croissants. I try to tell myself it tastes good, but it doesn’t. It tastes like glue with raisins in it. The reason I do this is because my body is weird now. I am old enough to get heartburn like my Grandpa you guys; we both have to sit up in our recliners for awhile after a spicy meal.
Pee in my pants. Kids, that was a great game of Crack the Egg on the trampoline, but mom has to go inside now.
MOM PEED HER PANTS OKAY LET IT GO.
I’m too old to go to the Olympics for anything, unless maybe I become a phenomenal marksman. The other day I saw my high school career teacher. We reminisced about the good old days when I took a “job test” in her class. The test said I should be an FBI agent. We nodded in solidarity as we realized together that this was never going to happen for me. She said I’d probably be good at catching my kids doing bad things in high school though. So there’s that.
It is a strange age when you realize you are never going to be an astronaut or the president, even though your parents said you could if you wanted.
Being called Ma’am by the 16-year-old cashier makes me want to ask if it’s okay to call them Satan.
Nothing compares to the time I went to get froyo with my friends (two of whom were visibly pregnant) and the boy at the counter kept referring to them as “my girls”. Finally I was like, “Um. Do you think they’re my daughters?”
“Yes. Is that offensive?”
No, but I am going to go home and swim away in a river of tears, right after I burn this dress that I’m wearing.
I realized what high school math was for. My third grader’s homework, that’s what. Life has come back to laugh in my face because it only gets worse from here. I became a mother and a writer SPECIFICALLY TO PROVE TO MY CHEMISTRY TEACHER THAT I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW PERIODIC TABLES.
Touche’ Mr. E., Touche’.
Sleeping on a crappy mattress does the exact same thing to my body as what one might expect from falling down several staircases or participating in the Cross Fit Games.
I will do and wear whatever I want. Do you guys remember when that article came out about what not to wear after 30? I will wear sparkly pants, with big sunglasses, AND, a graphic tee IF I WANT TO. That is probably NOT what I want to do though, in case you were wondering. Probably I just want to keep wearing these yoga pants…the point is, I’m in my thirties and I do what I want.
I do have the lines around my eyes…but I do what I want.
Feature photo by C. Bowden Photography.