My husband collects little mantras. He then abuses them by repeating them ad nauseam for weeks at a time. The most recent was, “the reaper comes for us all.” Dark, I know.
This is not okay. None of it.
I’m no longer the youngest person in a given group, which is seriously distressing. What do you mean they were born in the 90’s? I’m sorry, they’ve got to. No, no, we’re not going to kill them, just don’t invite them next time. Geez.
And then all of the indicators of aging came crashing down.
I was working on my make-up the other day and all of the sudden, there it was. Saluting me like it had just received an electrical jolt. Not a jolt you might get from an outlet, more like a Jurassic-Park-keep-the-dinosaurs-out jolt. The nefarious villain, the thing of nightmares. A dark hair. WTH? After a stiff shot of Pepsi and a cigarette (a mental cigarette) I realized what needed to be done. I grabbed the tweezers and closed my eyes. And then, just like that, I let out a deep breath and it floated away. That was easy. No, no, that was just part of my blush brush. Oh, for the love. Falling to my knees I cried, “I’m not ready!” Thank you, sweet, merciful God of old age. I suppose this means I need to prepare better. Mix me up some warm water and lemon or something. That’s a thing, right? Or does that just aid in digestion…
In my road rage the other day I shouted at the car next to me. “Cool your jets!” I said. Cool your jets? Oh, Kasey.
Not to mention the highlight of each morning. That is, getting to the gym in time to watch Kelly and Michael during my cardio. I’ll just slip on my ipod in my armband, that way, everyone will think I’m listening to Beyonce or something (one of the girls in the youth group at church explained to me what “bae” meant) and not squealing with glee while watching the cast of Downton Abby wearing real clothes.
So there it is. Happy Friday and all that. The boys are napping so I still have some time to either finish a recent crochet project while listening to a book on tape or work on the Friday crossword. Hot dang, Rob’s a lucky man.