Why Did I Come In Here Again?

 Whelp, appropriately enough given the theme of getting older in my last blog, this entry is a follow up.  

Why? 

Because I forgot half the things I wanted to write about. 

Did I have a bunch of notes written down specifically so I wouldn't forget to include them?

Yes.

Did I totally forget to look at said notes?

Also yes.

So here we are, folks.  Part two.  The sequel.  The literary equivalent of walking into a room only to completely forget why you are there and what you are looking for, only to repeat the process another 1-2 times. (The reason you can't find your phone anywhere is because it's in your hand down by your side.  The reason you can't see where your glasses are is because they're on your head). 

Ok, so back to the subject at hand.  The early stages of getting older.  A few days ago I turned 34 which officially puts me in my mid-30's (Assuming 30-33 is early thirties, 34-36 is mid thirties, and 37-39 is late thirties).  

I'm at that age where I don't yet pee when I laugh, but I do throw my back out a little bit every time I sneeze.  

I'm at that age where you look in the mirror and see a curiously long hair on your face and as you reach for it you desperately find yourself thinking, 'please don't be attached, please don't be attached'.  Spoiler alert: most of the time it's attached.

I'm at that age where the other day I found a white hair.  Do you know how blindingly white a hair has to be to stand out so blatantly against blonde tresses?  VERY.  VERY.  WHITE.

I'm at that age where I've started discovering new freckles.  And not those sun-kissed freckles you get on your nose and shoulders by being out in the sun.  No, I mean angry, hidden freckles that are practically holding up a sign that says, "I hope your insurance is good because in a couple years you're gonna have to get me checked for irregular borders".

I'm at the age where last night I had an incredibly stressful dream about buying tomato sauce.

That's adulthood.

I think back to my late teens to mid twenties.  My friends and I wouldn't even start our night until after 10pm.  We would go to multiple places in one night.  During the summers we would often still be up when the sun rose.  And then we would go to WORK.  Exhausted but filled with electricity that fueled us through the next 8 hours.  Our hair would still smell faintly of cigarettes and our lips had a lingering taste of cheap beer.  Our tongues would still be rainbow-stained from jello shots and our feet would be sore from dancing for hours on end.  

These days I've come to realize that my dancing is now less about popping my booty and more about frantically acting out the lyrics with my hands.

I used to joke about having to work out, but I never actually needed it.  Pants were never too tight and I could feel comfortable in a bathing suit at any given moment.

Recently, my doctor told me that I needed to start exercising because my "body had become depressed".  

My.

Body.

Had.

Become.

Depressed.

Gone are the days when I would be a secret little smart ass and think, "Oh gee, I sure hope all that time I spent thinking about exercising has paid off", as a I confidently slipped into a bikini on the first day of summer after a long, idle winter.

Now I practically wear a parka over my bathing suit.

When I would be seeing a guy back in the day, I would shave from top to bottom every. single. time I saw him.  God forbid he knew I possessed even a single follicle.  

But now?  Well, let me leave you with this piece of advice:

When a girl shaves for you, that's how you know she likes you.  When a girl stops shaving for you, that's how you know she loves you.