About 10 days ago, I had a birthday. My 38th, to be exact. Although after some of the things I heard, you would think I was pushing 90.
I had to go to the Dr. for my yearly mammogram. No big deal, and as the Dr. was going over some results, I told him some concerns I was having. He told me, “Well, you are getting to the age where you are what we call ‘pre-menopausal’. Your homones are starting to figure in now. Now that you are older.” He continued on how my mammogram was excellent, blah, blah. Now that I’m older? What the hell did he mean by that? I’m surprised he didn’t tell me that along with my hormones getting whacked, the objects of my mammogram would sag down to my knees.
A few days later, I went to my eye Dr. because of some irritation in my eyes. As we were discussing my contact lenses and how they are fitting, he asked me, oh-so-gingerly, “Now how young are you?” What a politically correct way to ask how ancient I am. “I just turned 38,” I said. “Well, you are getting to the age where we notice changes in our eyes. You probably should look into some reading glasses. Just go to Walmart and get some magnifiers.” Walmart, my ass. My old wrinkled ass.
As I am telling this story over the dinner table to Lou, doesn’t Matthew chime in with, “But you are old Mommy. Look at all of those wrinkles. And you have gray hair too.” No Santa for you this year!
So now that I am in my late thirties, old and decrepit, any of my friends and family are welcome to come over and tag the items in my house so when I am gone, they can take what they want.
I need to go and attend to my hormones, weak eyes and my sagging body parts.