The Physical Signs of Aging

I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

Downright naughty, really.

Last week, I ate a two pound block of Cabot cheddar cheese with minimal assistance from my husband.

I followed it up with a four-slice lunch from Papa Gino’s and three fully-loaded ice cream sundaes.

My wardrobe has consisted of little more than elastic waist bands and poly-blend, stretchable fabrics for fear of what I have done.

I haven’t stepped on a scale in well over a month. It’s my monster under the bed, only tucked in the dark reeses of my closet.

I have been living in sin.

So is my confession. Now, what shall my penance be?

A fast of water and leafy greens, followed by heavy work outs for the next few weeks…

I remember the days when being decadent meant a night out in a dark club, drinking one too many cocktails. Heels on, the daring flesh of my shoulders exposed. Sweaty dances stolen by strangers as the crowd moved in rhythm to the thumping beat of a heart-stoppingly loud bass.

These days, my wild side comes out in the kitchen. The new and uncompromising positions I find myself caught in? With the freezer door open, sneaking spoonfuls of Gelato Fiasco’s Dark Chocolate Caramel Sea Salt during commercial breaks (oh, if only I were joking).

My moments of weakness are no longer forgotten when morning comes. Instead, I can feel the gastritis taking over my stomach lining and the cellulite forming on my ass. My energy is depleted. I need to pop a Prilosec and take a nap in an attempt to recover. I used to be able to follow a night drinking with a large DP Dough calzone at 2am and still have it in my to get up for an exam the next day. When I was younger, I used to eat an entire bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos, dipped in sour cream onion dip, and wash it down with a 20oz Coke. Now, just the thought gives me heartburn and has me reaching for a bottle of Pepto.

Is this what growing up looks like? The true sign of adulthood when your body beings to turn on you? I didn’t think it would start so young.

I spent this past weekend at a three-day music festival, and now before you go shaking your head and saying, “Hey, if you can rock out at some crazy music fest, how can you possibly complain?”, let me explain. This was no electronic, drug fueled gathering of debauchery. It was three days of bluegrass and folk music set in the idyllic Berkshires at an art museum. Even then, two nights of camping and long days in the sun followed by nights standing too close to the speakers and I need a week to recover. Hips moving, hands in the air, singing along to the band and my mind wouldn’t stop interrupting to remind me that I really should take a break to hydrate, that my back aches and sleeping on a foam pad that night will be hell to pay, that my ears will no doubt be ringing for the next 24 hours if I don’t move away from the front of the stage asap. Did I listen? No. But oh Houndmouth, you hurt so good.

Despite being in the best shape of my life, my mind more elastic and free than it’s ever been, I can feel the countdown has already begun. Before I know it my vision will go, my hearing will follow, and I will be asking for a butt pillow to ease my sciatica pain just like Nana does. Oh Lord, hear my prayers and keep my tits perky for at least another decade. Until then, I will be doing squats in an effort to keep my ass in shape — literally keep its shape.

Originally published at ThisIsWhat30LooksLike.com on September 21, 2015.

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