My partner in crime posted last week about how she went out for St. Patrick’s Day, but felt a little old.
I had a good laugh with her because we happened to go out on that Sunday for drinks, but it just randomly happened to be the day my mother-in-law could watch Henry for a few hours. And we chose an extremely non-irish bar so we could keep away from the crowds.
We don’t like sharing space with strangers. Or new people.
I’m not really sure why we even bothered going out at all. Because afterwards, we complained about the bar tab and how we should have just had a few drinks at home.
Which is how I know I’m old.
I also know I’m old because I get my annual skin screening and had an in-depth conversation with the doctor about Retin-A.
We’re well past the “make sure you wear sunscreen and moisturize” days and have entered the “Retin-A will need to be used soon to maintain where you’re at and maybe you want to consider lasering off those red spots you’ve developed over the last year?”.
And in related news, my knees have cracked since I was pregnant and I’m also starting physical therapy for lower back pain due to slight arthritis in my lumbar area. ARTHRITIS.
It’s always been fun to joke about being an old lady trapped in a young person’s body, but at what point do I become an old lady trapped in an old lady’s body? (also known as “just old”).
To be honest, I’m not really sure the point of this post other than just me having a desire to complain about the inevitable destruction of my youth.
Ironic, given I’ve watched more cartoons in the last year than I have in the previous decade.
But that’s ok. With the getting older comes other things. Like having an adult beverage whenever I want. Or skipping making my bed. Or not doing the laundry because I’d prefer to zone out on Netflix after a long day.
I guess it’s just a little bit of give and take.
And I’ll take the option where I can have prosecco with brunch any time over having to stick with milk or juice.