I Feel Like a 90-Year-Old Woman
When I turned 30, it seemed like no big deal. 30 was the new 20, or something like that. Somewhere in between 30 and 40, though, I managed to leap over several decades to become a rather crotchety old lady living in a 40-year-old’s body.
Remember Del Boca Vista, the retirement community where Jerry’s parents lived on the TV show Seinfeld? The early bird dinner special started at 4:30, but Jerry insisted that they shouldn’t eat until after the civilized time 6 p.m.
Now that just wouldn’t work for me, because it’s past my bedtime. Even 4:30 would be really pushing it.
Evening no longer exists in my world. Staying up until 6 p.m. is a late night; normally I’m in bed closer to 5 p.m. I’m beating the old people at their own game. Even my 103-year-old grandma thinks I’m insane.
I’m okay with that.
Another thing I’ve embraced is comfort above all else. Two words: elastic waistband.
Back in my early 20s, I’m sure I was loud and obnoxious in the liquor store, along with probably most other settings I found myself in. Now I live near a university campus and at certain times the liquor store is packed with young whippersnappers. I roll my eyes and grumble and puzzle over why they have to bellow across the store to one another, and that girl’s shorts are so short I can almost see her vagina. Kids these days!
Yes, I am now that person who says “kids these days”.
Being an (albeit self-proclaimed) old person, I didn’t grow up in the internet age. I still remember the modem screeching involved in dial-up internet. At that point a cell phone was still the oh-so-cool brick that Zack Morris carried around in Saved By The Bell. I’ve been left a bit dazed and confused by what’s happened since then.
For example, I don’t understand what Snapchat is. It’s been explained to me on multiple occasions, but I still can’t see the point. Sexting also puzzles me.Teenage boys have a brain, but most of the time it’s controlled by their penis. Why send a naked picture to a penis dressed up as a whole human being? There’s no way anything good could come of that.
Then there’s the lingo. Goals AF? On fleek? Lit? Woke? In my mind that last one is what happened when I got up at 1 a.m. (a natural consequence of the early bedtime).
Speaking of being up at 1 a.m., that means it’s not unusual for me to be getting up for the day when my 20-something neighbour hasn’t gone to bed yet. Sometimes he sings (badly) or plays the ukulele (equally badly). This is the only time I ever regret my sleep schedule.
I get to experience the delight of having a rectocele, which involves pelvic floor bits and pieces dancing an R-rated version of the lambada. This whole situation doesn’t usually happen in pre-menopausal women. Estrogen is supposed to be the cock-blocker in this little dance. Not for me, though. I guess I’m just special that way.
The real problem with this whole too-young body business is that I have no hope of qualifying for a senior’s discount anytime soon. At least there’s always the early bird special…