Aging ungracefully
August 16, 2014
I’ve always welcomed old age. I’ve been eager to figure everything out, which I assumed came with old age.
Old people seem wise, right?
Now that I’m pushing 40, there are several things about aging that I hadn’t bargained for.
First, I kind of glossed over the physical changes that accompany aging.
I mean, I knew eventually my hair would gray and I’d get wrinkles.
But I completely underestimated the other changes to my body – the aching back in the morning, the inability to get back up once seated on the floor, the stiff joints after working in the garden.
Second, I didn’t realize it would start so soon!
I turn 38 in a little over a month. I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt – there is a world of difference between 28 and 38.
I already have to look underneath my glasses to read things up close, just like my mom!
In the last few weeks, my right pinkie has been locking up. I know I need to go to the doctor, but I don’t want to hear the inevitable truth – I’m getting old.
I Googled it, and it appears I probably have something called ‘trigger finger,’ which commonly occurs in women between the ages of 40 and 60.
That’s what I get for wishing I was old for the first 30 years of my life – premature aging. Be careful what you wish for.
I already know what the doctor is going to say, because I’ve heard it before.
I have been battling a bout of acne on my chin for over a year now.
I have a worse complexion now than at any other point in my life.
In high school, I only got zits at the least opportune times, like the morning of prom, or the twin peaks that grew on the apples of my cheeks the day of my senior portraits.
I used to flip the channel when the Proactive commercial came on TV. Now I’m shushing everyone and jotting down the toll-free number.
After several months of ignoring it and hoping it would go away, I finally went to the doctor. Several, actually.
Turns out the condition is an acne-like rash caused by hormonal shifting that commonly occurs in premenopausal women.
Premenopausal. Now there’s a word that sticks to the roof of your mouth.
I’ve always made fun of men who buy a corvette the day they realize their hair is falling out.
Now I get it.
I am pretty sure I’m done having children. I’m very content with the two wonderful kids I already have.
But as soon as the doctor uttered that dreaded word – premenopausal – I was struck with the sudden urge to procreate just to prove I could still do it.
(Add ‘midlife crisis’ to the long list of terrible reasons to have a child.)
So here I am, almost 38 years old, with a locked up pinkie and a chin that looks like a 13-year-old chocolate addict, and I’m thinking maybe I romanticized aging a bit.
There are mornings I’d trade all the wisdom in the world for the ability to sleep past seven a.m. without my back throwing an aching, screaming fit.
This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus and the Sidney (Mont.) Herald on August 16, 2014.