Aging is a Trip

"Mama, why is your face all wrinkled up like that?" asked my precious 7 year old one morning at the breakfast table, before I had even taken my first sip of coffee. I replied simply, "Because of you."

I didn't think anyone else had really noticed some of my undeniable symptoms of aging: sun damaged decolletage, fine lines decorating my face like tinsel dons a lit up Christmas tree, and well, the GRAVITY of lower hanging appendages. Aging hasn't been like the Big Bang Theory in my life or anything...BAM, YOU ARE NOW OLD! Mother Nature has been A BIT gentler than that. But not much.

Up until 30, I felt untouchable. Aging was only something that happened to other people...old people. Not moi. Well, I've been duped. Because 30 is actually the age I believe your body starts to show all the shit that you never did to take care of it in your teens and twenties.

For example: slathering on baby oil with iodine so I could achieve what every 17 year old coveted: a healthy looking tan. Fast forward 20 years, and I don't leave the house now without applying sunscreen. I love Neutrogena cool spray SPF 45. And due to my heritage, I still get a nice color. But I am learning that a lot of sun damage has already been done. I can now, only prevent further damage from happening.

I would like to ask Mother Nature one question though: what the hell is up with the things that are happening to me that I have absolutely NO control over? Like random little hairs appearing...wherever.

As I applied my make up in a hurried rush one morning, I noticed, a hair growing from the bottom of my chinny chin chin, approximately 3 inches long (slight exaggeration, but not much!) WTF? I promptly plucked that mother, like a gardener using a weed whacker. But it left me feeling old. I'm morphing into the school lunch lady, I thought, complete with random hairs growing out of her moles. As a kid, I just wanted to grab some tweezers and take care of that business for the lunch lady. Obviously, she just didn't care, or couldn't see the small blanket that was growing down her cheek. I give permission to any fool that wants to take some tweezers to my chinny chin chin.

Most of you know that I am an avid runner. Here is something that you may not know about me, and probably wish you never found out: I need to empty my bladder LITERALLY right before I start running, and promptly half-way through my run. Why? Because, quite plainly put, I pee myself. I'm not sure if this is aging, or the essence of birthing my kids through you know, "the parts". Whatever the cause, it bites big time! Do you have to think about putting on a diaper before sneezing? Laughing? Doing Tequila shots and then jumping on a trampoline? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Apparently, I am somewhat in denial of my bra size, as well. In my mind, I have and always will be a 36 C. It's a nice size, 36 C. I've grown attached to that size, 36 C. It's comforting to know: 36 C.

After my third daughter turned one, and the "Boobie Cafe" closed, I thought it would be a good idea to get re-measured at Victoria's Secret. I was not ready for the devastation that was about to be cast my way. One
of the busty, young associates, came at me with her measuring tape.

"Okay, we've got you at......(drum roll please)... 34 B," she replied, crushing me like an ant. "WHAT?! That must be wrong. I'm a 36 C. I have always been a 36 C, and I mean, you must have read that wrong." I slowly felt my world crumbling. "No sweetie, you are a 34 B. It's normal for size to change after having babies." Well, God Damnit, I thought to myself. It's not enough that we grow these people like parasites for TEN months, while nursing them for another TWELVE...my children have taken my boobies!

After getting over the initial shock of no longer being a 36 C, I sucked it up, and purchased a really cute padded push up bra. Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. It makes me look JUST like I have REAL breasts...consumerism, gotta love it.

Recently, a picture of Tom and I popped up on the screen saver that made me stop in my tracks. I was like, "DAMN, I look good in that picture. What's different about me?" I then noticed we were laying down, holding the camera above us. This angle took at least ten years off my face. I want to frame that picture. I think I will make it poster size. Maybe I'll turn it into wallpaper.

In my twenties, I washed my face and put on some lotion...if I remembered. Now it's like a Boot Camp...wash face: check! Spritz toner: check! Apply moisturizer WITH sunscreen: check! End with under eye cream: check! Soldier, you are now ready for battle. The battle of aging, that is. That's like 102 steps, but if it means I'll keep my face from aging any faster, I'll do it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up here. Rather, I'm just stating the obvious. I like to look at how my body is changing like different wars I have fought over the years. But I also want to prevent further battles from breaking out, you know what I'm sayin'? Thus, I am a GINORMOUS believer in taking care of myself: whether it be through exercise, taking a relaxing bath, or downing a bottle of wine, by myself, without sharing. Sometimes I even hide in the bathroom so no one can find me. I have also been known to lock my bedroom door when I blog. Some may call that parental negligence. I prefer to call it survival.