We all know I suffer from P.P.S. (Peter Pan Syndrome) but even so, I have never denied the inevitable. The fact that as time goes on and I grow older, everything changes. Not just my skin and body but decisions, beliefs, and desires, too. Don't get me wrong, years ago I remember hearing the age 34 and thinking, EW that's old, like Monica Gellar old, but I honestly thought my active life and youthful attitude would keep me young forever, or at least longer than other people. I didn't expect at this age to not be able to get out of bed without a groan and moan from a herniated disc. I also would have laughed in your face if you told me that I would be worried about crows feet and laugh lines. I thought that crap happened at 50, not 34! Yet here I am, Googling Groupon Botox deals and doing modified gym routines so I don't aggravate my lower back. Now that I think about it, maybe it was my active life and youthful attitude that caused half of these issues. Perhaps, I had too much fun and all my years of wide smiles and loud laughter have been too much for my face to handle, and maybe the years spent dancing till dawn wore my body down before it should have. Regardless of the cause, for some issues it’s too late or not without a hefty price tag. So just go on without me because I might as well get myself a walker and adult diaper now.
Here are five issues I never expected to be dealing with at the young but old age of 34!
My diet tricks no longer work.
Goddammit. God freaking dammit. My 24-hour juice cleanse, 3-day no drinking plan, and 7-day veggies only diet NO LONGER WORK. Remember the good old days when you needed to lose five pounds by Friday and all you had to do was cut out Oreos for a week? Or how about when you would go to the gym once a week, yet miraculously stay tight and toned? Man, if I would have known that in just a few short years all of that would disappear, I would have worn a lot less clothes or at least complained less about my minuscule body issues. I can just hear the young me whining, "Oh, I just hate my little love handles that you can see in my size 4 jeans! Life is so unfair!" Now it's more like, "You think these leggings will hide the kangaroo pouch and love handles that no amount of sit-ups can ever fix?" I always knew it would happen, and I shouldn't be so surprised as my weight did more ups and downs than a yoyo, but I never expected that not eating carbs for a few days would ever stop working. Now I actually need to cut out carbs, sugar, watch my dairy, not drink alcohol during the week in addition to working out, taking supplements, and eating lots of green stuff just to drop a few lbs. I mean WTF!
I actually need Botox.
Don't even get me started with this one. At first it's all fun and games, like oh, let me buy this cream to be preventive. Preventative, my ass. I have been rubbing expensive crap and masks all over my face for the last five years, and guess what? I am still creasing up like a freaking piece of crumpled notebook paper. The little lines I see around my eyes from squinting, the traces of marks around my mouth from years of laughing, and the God awful wrinkles on the top of my forehead that are getting so deep I'm pretty sure I can hold a quarter in between them. I have no problem with sticking a few chemical injected needles in my face to fake it for six months, and they do say the more Botox you do the longer it'll last, but who the hell has $500 laying around? Not me, and if I do, I will probably choose a weekend in AC without my two young kids over an ironed out face.
I'm starting to sound like my mother.
This surprising truth deserves a whole article within itself. The moment where I confess to my mother dearest that she was right about a lot of things. Things I swore I would never say or do to my children, advice I promised would never happen to me, and stuff she would do that would irk the crap out of me! Now, not only do I regret not listening, but I find myself preaching the same facts and mimicking the same strange habits. Like talking to myself and repeating things 100 times. I used to roll my eyes whenever I heard her have these conversations with herself, yet here I am, 34-years-old and looking like a straight crazy person. I also use exact phrases like telling (or screaming at) my children, "I'm changing my name, my name is no longer Mom." My mother always said this to my brothers and I, and now I fully understand why. Or how about the endless worrying about my children the same exact way she worried about me. Playing too rough, too much sun, not walking alone, keeping the right friends. There isn't one hour of one day that doesn't go by where I don't experience some sort of worry. Hence, why I feel so bad for how much grief I gave her for being "so annoying" because her worries are now mine.
Questioning my past yet permanent choices.
Tattoos, piercings, and scars, OH MY! Listen, I do not regret my tattoos (most of them). In fact, I still have plans for more, but when I think about my beautiful three-year-old daughter permanently inking her beautiful olive skin when she is older, I literally want to DIE! A few dainty ones here and there, OK, but anything bigger and without well-thought out meaning, I will be forced to physically intervene. I have many future lectures planned where I show her my collection of mistakes like the "Another One Bites The Dust" I have largely tattooed across my entire hip or the two stars hidden behind my undies that have been sliced into twice thanks to C-sections. Or the chipped tooth from my tongue piercing and uneven nostril from my twice pierced nose. While I had these done during some of the craziest and fun times of my life, I often wish I could go back in time and skip that trip to the parlor.
I'm no longer the "baby" in my group of friends.
This may sound strange to some of you, but being the youngest of my friends has always been a thing for me, both good and bad. When I was younger, I mostly hung around older kids, and I would sometimes feel embarrassed or intimated. I lied all the time about being older than I was. However, for the last few years, I have LOVED being the youngest. Not like in a "you're going to die before me" kind of way, but in a "I'm still cool as hell" sort of way. Haha, that sounds ridiculous, I know. Even now after meeting an entirely new group of friends who have become more like family, I often find myself the butt of the joke for being one of the only "millennials." Well, joke away because I will take youth jokes any day of the week. But as of recent, something terrible has begun to happen. Now as my children are getting older, I am starting to meet younger moms at school and activities. Women who are still planning on having more babies, women who look younger than me, women who aren't even 30 yet! That's right, I said it, not even 30! I am not even sure how to act around these tiny mom-babies. Am I now supposed to be the one to give advice on what snacks to pack and when baseball registration ends? No! That's not my job! I'm the BABY! Wahhhhhhh!