I always promised myself I'd accept growing older with the grace and dignity it calls for. However, now that the time is upon me and I'm feeling the years slipping away, I feel like greeting my old age by kicking and screaming and digging my feet into the dirt in an effort to slow the forward momentum. Yes, I know, it seems petty and childish. But, I'm not THAT old.
I'm not even worried about the finality that comes with growing older. Death is merely another adventure- granted, I'm not exactly packed for it, but when/if it comes, I certainly hope I'm ready. No, what I worry about is the break-down of my body.
It's already begun. I'm slowly loosing what little control over my anatomy the indignity of child-birth might have left behind. I pee when I laugh. I pee when I cry. Heck, I pee when I flop onto the couch in an undignified lump, hoping against hope that I can finish my DVR'd episode of Drop Dead Diva before naptime is over. I have to watch what I eat, what I drink, how much I exercise, how much I sleep. I have medication for my medication. I've even, GASP!, found a lump on my breast that had my doctors nervous. (It's nothing to worry about but still has to be biopsied.)
Even worse, I'm being addressed as Ma'am... or Mrs. Ross. Mrs. Ross?
Huh? Oh wait... they're talking about me.
I'm no longer carded at the grocery store for buying a bottle of wine and I stare in amazement at the toddlers I see driving cars at the mall.
(What do you mean she's 17?!? She can't be THAT much older than my oldest... oh... yeah...)
In fact, the only upside to growing old appears to be that I can order naughty movies without blushing.
No. That's not right. What do you mean I'm still blushing?
Sigh.
