“HOLY CRAP I’M 37!”
Ok, I can’t believe I’m not 20. Up until now, my 20th birthday was definitely the most difficult. I remember sitting on the Huskie Bus at Northern Illinois University that fateful November day saying to myself, parrotlike; “I’m 20. I’m 20? I’m 20. I’M 20!” 20 seemed so huge. Finally I wasn’t a kid…there were no more ones in front of my numbers! 20 had expectations and goals and life strategies. 19 had keg stands, fake id’s, and beer bongs.
So here I am, SEVENTEEN YEARS later wondering where did all these forehead wrinkes come from, how did my cholesterol level get so high, and when did I start treating my dog like she was my kid? I’m not ready to admit I’m no longer as cute as a 19 year old! Until… I see their faces sans crow’s feet…faces with baby’s-butt smooth skin and heads with shiny vibrant hair boinging youthfully from their scalps. I feel I have just as much energy as one of these whipper snappers until an actual 19 year old tells me that they are going out for the evening at 1130 PM and I’m thinkin’ isn’t that two hours past bed time? When did 1130 on a Thursday night stop being party prime time for me?
Ya know though…I’m gonna be one of those feisty grandmas who goes on casino trips with all the weird make-up, the freshly bouffant beauty-salon-blue hair, and the leopard print tops. I’m gonna have a ninety-three year old “boy friend” named Dexter that I can harmlessly flirt with as he escorts me to the cafe at the senior living center where I’ll probably end up living until I leave feet first.
That doesn’t sound so bad…bring on 87!!!
