Hey all! Today is my birthday. Yup. April 6. Besides me, Paul Rudd, Candace Cameron, Bill Dee Williams, Marilu Henner, John Ratzenberger and a whole bunch of people I’ve never even heard of also have a birthday today. All my life I thought I shared a birthday with Houdini, but I just found out I don’t. That’s embarrassing. I also share my birthday with a couple of friends, which is totally cool but not. Get your own birthday! JK.
So, I’m 47. Or as my sweet dad likes to say, “you’re in your 48th year.” Thanks dad. I can officially say that I am in my late 40’s. Although I would really prefer not to say that ever. I don’t know why. I feel good, I’m in a good mental state (well, most of the time), I’m fairly happy with the way I look (Except my eyelids. They droop so bad, it looks like I’m sleep walking. When did that happen?). I’m doing something I absolutely and completely love, love, love. So, what’s my problem?
I’m almost 50. Sure, you may think it’s not a big deal. And on the large scale, it isn’t. It’s just a number. I need to embrace it. Sure, okay. I will. But first I need to say this: Like my eyelids, WHEN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN? And freak that. It is a big deal. Holy Hell. I’m almost 50.
Just yesterday I was 19, when I met my husband-to-be. DH had a grandmother (she lived to be 99 — love and miss you Mem). She was in her seventies when I met her. I used to say, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of time before I’m that old.” Well, guess what? I’m closer to there than I care to admit. I barely remember the first half of my life it whizzed by so fast. That is what scares me.
Why do I think about it so much? Because. There is stuff happening to me that makes it quite apparent that I am aging. How is a girl supposed to NOT think about it when…
- I swear, I lose an inch of height a year. At my tallest, I stood at five feet five and three quarters of an inch. Now? Let’s just say The Kid absolutely LOOMS over me. I can’t even post a picture of us on Facebook without someone making that “are you kneeling?” comment. My name is Mo and I am shrinking. There, I said it.
The backs of my hands look like a road map of Manhattan. Where did you say you wanted to go? Madison and 37th? Oh, here it is. Right beneath my left ring finger. Kind of convenient, wouldn’t you say? No.
- Every morning when I get out of bed, I have more aches and pains than an athlete who just finished a marathon followed by the Iron Man. No, actually, I think I hurt more than that. It takes me a good 10 minutes to loosen up in the morning. I may need a cane soon to get me to the bathroom so I can go pee.
- Speaking of pee…when I go, it doesn’t stop. I think it stops. But it doesn’t. I have been known to leave a lovely trail to the shower (follow the yellow pee road). I’m sorry. I can’t help it. All the Kegels in the world don’t help.
- Holding my arms out to read something no longer works. I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s just say there are a pair of readers in every room of my house, in my car, pocketbook and on my head at all times.
- My eyelids are just about reaching my boobs. Which is pretty bad because my boobs are now half way down my stomach. They haven’t quite reached the belly button though. And for this I am grateful.
- I call everyone under the age of 40, a “kid.”
- I think my hair has more gray than blonde. But I wouldn’t really know because I hide it with highlights. In fact, I don’t even know what my real hair color is anymore. And I have a feeling I should continue to stay in the dark about that for as long as I possibly can.
- I graduated high school 28 years ago. When The Kid graduates, I may be going to my 30th reunion. Oh Dear God.
- When you start running at the age of 46 and need knee surgery less than 8 months later, then maybe you shouldn’t start running at the age of 46.
I think that’s enough. Today is a happy day. Today is my birthday. So what that I may have to start adding Metamucil to my wine. Mentally, I feel like I’m 15. A 15 year old with a short term memory problem. Whatever. It could be worse. My boobs could be hanging down to my belly button.