Yeah I know. I could benefit from a tan.
“Arthritis? What the heck do you mean arthritis?” Those were the words I uttered from my fat mouth when the nice physician’s assistant came in to inject the first of five doses of gel into my broken knee. When I was signing that little form that they make you sign informing you of the possible side effects, I saw the word “arthritis” at the top. So, I surmised that people who need this gel injection have arthritis. My suspicions were confirmed when I inquired. I should have quit while I thought I was ahead.
So, here I am. At the age of 47 and already suffering from droopy eye syndrome so badly that I fear going completely blind by way of my own eyelids (is that why I need reading glasses?). I have sporadic hairs growing out of my chin. I’m thinning out down below (when I say “down below” I’m not exactly talking about my toe hair). The backs of my hands have a city map running through them. My memory lasts about as long as a teenage boy embarking on his first romp. I forgot to mention the gray that just about exceeds the natural color (whatever that is) on my head, my sudden desire for stock in the company that makes Depends and the crows feet that look more like the feet of a pterodactyl. So, now you tell me I have arthritis of the knee?
I’m over it. This aging thing royally bites. Although I don’t really think I’m that old. In case you didn’t hear me, I’m only 47. Forty-seven. XLVII (yes, I looked that up). I exercise. I eat healthy. Sure I have a glass(es) of wine a night and maybe a potato chip or two from time to time. But really? Give me a break.
It’s cool. I’m embracing it. Well, kinda. When I’m not overcome with a panic attack of epic proportions that includes downing a glass of Metamucil while watching an episode of The Golden Girls. Really. I’m okay with it. I may look and feel 86 but I act 16. That’s all that matters. Right?
So, maybe “awesome” is a strong word here. But being in my 40’s isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was inspired to write about this subject by a post I saw the other day. The blogger wrote a list of 40 reasons why being 40-something is better than being 20-something. And it got me thinking about my own reasons why the 40’s are better than the 20’s. I couldn’t come up with 40 exactly, so 10 will have to do. Here’s what I think. Tread lightly.
- You don’t need to bring your ID with you everywhere. Believe me. I don’t care how young you think you look. You will not get carded. Unless the bartender is trying for an extra tip. But for me, that doesn’t work. Because I know he is trying for an extra tip.
- We are smarter. See number one.
- When I was in my 20’s, I would beg, borrow and steal to get you to like me. Now? I don’t really give a damn, Scarlet. Unless your name is DH. Cuz I want him to like me. Otherwise I’d be divorced.
- I would rather die than admit that I needed glasses to read. Today? You can find me at any given time with 3 pairs sitting on top of my head. It’s really quite cute. And oh so convenient.
- People take you a little more seriously. And I can act like a dumb ass around young people and they can’t say anything because it would be totally disrespectful. It’s so much fun to see The Kid’s friends squirm or the young people at My Retail Job give me that “you’re so weird” look. I should be embarrassed. But I’m not.
- I can, and have, answered the door in my robe and slippers and am surprisingly fine with it. Now the person at my door? That may be a different story. I see soap to the eyes in their near future.
- When I was in my 20’s, you would never, ever catch me singing out loud in my car to myself. Ever. Now? Not only will I sing out loud and proud, but I may even roll down my windows for all to enjoy. Consider that my gift to you. You’re welcome.
- As a 40-something year old woman, I am more confident, sure and wise. Honestly. You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back there. Well, actually. It would be really great if my ass still looked that good. Or was at least in the place it was intended to be. Because I am completely freaked out by what happened to it. I think I need a bra for my butt. A Butt Bra.
- I have no problem with being accountable for my actions. Back then I would throw every Tom, Dick and Harry under the bus to save my ass. Oh wait. I thought I was supposed to be smarter?
- I am so incredibly at ease with my partner. I will walk around naked in the light. Tell him what I think. Burp out loud. And poop with the bathroom door open. Ok, actually that last one is a lie. That’s just gross.
So, that’s about it. For Now. Maybe there will be a Part II because surely there are many, many more reasons why being 46 is better than being 26, right? Can you think of any? Let me know. Because it has got to be better than this. Maybe.