Okay, so I’m not usually a big fan of that tag thing–though I may have to revise that theory because I really do a lot of them these days; either tags are getting better, or I’m going soft in my old age. Anyway, Ali just posted a fun tag that consists of seven (7) things about herself that no one knows or that are odd or random. Well, I’ve been enjoying Tally‘s lists of random things about herself at the end of a couple of her recent posts, so I thought why not? Why not, indeed, it turns out that I blog a lot of random and odd things about myself so coming up with this list was no easy task; it also turns out that I got a bit carried away with number one (1). Um, never got past it, actually, in more ways than one.
1. I hate hate hate being forty. Forty sucks. It’s not thirty-something anymore, and seems old, even to me. But I still feel about twenty-six (and yes, yes, okay I act like I’m about twenty-six, too. Or twelve. Depending on the day of the week.). And being forty means that my face has suddenly become a road map of crow’s feet and “smile lines” (what a ridiculous name for icky lines around your mouth!), and that I can’t smooth on enough lotion or make up to hide them. Sleep has never been more important to my “look,” because losing even one hour’s sleep shows towards the end of the day, and I look haggard and haggy. Did I mention that forty sucks?
Oh, and forget about dating . . . all the straight single (or divorced) men are . . . well, let’s face it, rejects that no one else wanted. (Oops, I feel a rant coming on.) Stunted emotionally or crazily immature (i.e. living with their parents or in some dingy I still think I’m in college hole in the wall), the worst of them have never been married. These ones still party like it’s 1999, and they leave their studly boxes o’ condoms lying around for anyone to see. They eat a lot of pizza. And they do their clothes at the Laundorama. They tend to date younger than themselves, girls in their late teens, early twenties. Which is fine because no grown up woman would look twice. The previously marrieds are better bets, sure, but where are they? Working their butts off 24/7 to pay child support and alimony, no time for Fuzzy. Forty sucks.
I saw a snippet of a stand-up comic’s routine the other day on the Comedy Channel, and can I just say that humor is indeed the way we talk about our biggest fears and worst mistakes. She was very pretty and very funny, and she was talking about how in her twenties she’d gone through men “like kleenex”: this one’s too tall, this one’s too nice, this one eats funny, this one doesn’t tuck in his shirt, this one wears baseball caps, etc. You get the point. And the thing is I totally identify with that. Sad, but true. I was a picky picky girl, and I was having the time of life (if only I’d known that then). The next part of this comic’s (didn’t catch her name, was just flipping around through channels) routine was about how all that changed in her thirties . . . now there are no good men left, they’ve all been snapped up, and that guy who didn’t tuck in his shirt looks so good mowing the grass in suburbia. And she talked about how she rifles through the metaphorical trash looking for that disposable kleenex guy who was too nice or that guy who liked her too much. Okay, it was funny as hell. And it really hit home. Sigh.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ll take being forty over the alternative, and I’m fortunate enough not to “need” a man financially, so it’s not the end of the world if I never find the right guy, but . . . well, it’s just all different now. I need to reset my mindset and get all positive, reinflate the self-esteem, that sort of thing. I think that would make me feel less . . . forty.
After chatting with a friend just now, I decided to post a pic of the “wrinkled face of forty”; I put my blog on friends only while this is up and trust that no one will pass it along. Like yeah, what for, right?
No idea why I’m munching on my hair. Must have run out of snacks.