You know the ones I mean.
They come usually on the heels of a hangover, as a plea to the porcelain gods,
“If I make it through this, I’m never doing this shit again!"
Thankfully, it wasn't quite all that, this time, but it was enough nausea to make me wonder:
How old is too old to be out partying???
I am married with children.
That does not make me dead to the world outside my living room.
Nor does it lessen my love for all things music, nor my affinity for all things alcohol.
If anything, it makes me appreciate those things more.
I seriously doubt that two Saturday nights a month of the kids having a movie night with their favorite cousin (our sitter is my niece) will negatively impact our children, or cause them to question our undying love of them being up under my armpits every second of every day.
All that having been said, I’ll be 35 this year. I have more gray than EmmyLou Harris, which you’d know, if my stylist wasn't so highly paid.
My knees creak, my knuckles crack, my boobs sag, and so does my ass.
Fine lines radiate outward from both my eyes and lips, early indicators of the deep creases they will one day become, and a sure sign of a lifetime of laughter and love…
I don’t mind aging. It happens to everyone, right?
(Well…everyone that doesn't go for weekly botox and annual face lifts.)
What I mind is the effect aging may have on my quality of life as I know it.
The simple fact is, my body is trying to tell me something:
HEY YOU! We’re not 22 anymore.
If you want to be able to play with your grandkids, you need to make some changes.
Eat a salad now and then.
Get some exercise.
(And no, dancing all night at the bar once a month does NOT count.)
The child in me says “Noooooooooo! I’m not this old! This can’t be happening!”
The child in me would plug her ears and close her eyes and say “Lalalalalalalalala I can’t hear you!”
The child in front of me says “Please. Grow up and hang around for a while. I may need you to babysit one day when I want to go out.”