So, I’m thirty-four, hovering dangerously closely to thirty-five. And I’ve discussed my mortality before. But today, I’d like to take a step back. Today, I’d like to talk about another issues, a few ideas that often find themselves fleeting through my mind.
I have to wonder at what point I will be considered old, because, in my mind, I’m probably nearing twenty-eight (or eighty). At which point (beyond the realization you can’t stay up past ten, have more than two drinks, or go to the late movie), should one actually consider herself old? I know, I know. It’s a state of mind. You’re only as young as you feel. Euphemism. Euphemism. Tagline. Trademarked phrase used to entice you to buy eye cream. I get it.
Am I old? Am I getting there? Am I JC Penney old or Chico’s old? And what exactly is Chico’s old?
I know enough not to shop in the Juniors’ department. I know enough not to buy anything with PINK stamped across the ass. I know enough not to buy lip gloss with sparkles in it. I also know not to tie a sweater around my neck or wear a visor in a convertible.
But I feel like I’ve entered an abyss of sorts, that point where you know you can’t hang with the party animals, but you also know you’ve got a little more fight in you than bridge club requires.
And what’s that hill again? The one I’ll soon be over? Forty? Is it fifty? And what happens then? Will I be issued a knot in my back, permanently pleated pink polyester pants, and a pair of bifocals? I’m worried about this.
When I was in Florida in October, I had a sobering moment. I got nauseous on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. I got nauseous on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. The wind also whipped a little too swiftly through my hair on Big Thunder Mountain. And, truth be told, I got a little nauseous on that, too. I kept it to myself, but that’s got to be a turning point, no?
From screaming obscenities atop the twistiest, turniest, upside-downiest rollercoasters in the country, and, trying, quite literally, to drunkenly wade through a fountain at Downtown Disney (Sorry, Disney. I never did get the chance to apologize), getting nauseous in a bumper car attached to a conveyor belt, is humbling, to say the very least.
Should I start practicing my bunion rants now? Get fitted for orthotics? Fail my driver’s license test? I don’t want to be a salmon fighting upstream. I don’t want to resist maturity, but I don’t want it to overtake me, either.
If you’re as young as you feel, and you don’t necessarily feel the call of the wild anymore (and would probably puke immediately if you drank anything with Wild in its name), are you old? What are you? What are you?
And what will this new demographic unearth? I mean, besides hormone replacement therapy and line filler? I’m a little bit frightened. Will Paris Hilton be hosting infomercials? Will I be sipping Jonah Hill vodka, mindlessly mashing buttons on an Armageddon slot machine? Who really knows?
Perhaps I am feeling a little bit old, but I can tell you right now, I refuse to prepare for the day I find myself lounging around in a Snuggie, eating poop yogurt, watching a Party of Five marathon on The Hub.