Clique as it sounds, another birthday has come and gone. When once a birthday was full of excitement and childish delight, it is now taken over by dread and self loathing. I would have curled up into a ball onto the floor and cried myself to sleep but A)the babies can smell weakness, B)napping while your children are awake and on the loose is frowned upon and C)I haven't vacuumed in weeks. I even forgot how old I was going to be until myfitnesspal.douche so kindly reminded me, 3 weeks early I might add. I'm not going to tell you how old I am, because a "lady" never tells, but I am under 30. Now before those of you who are older than me jump all over me and throw a fit, calm down. Old people shouldn't throw tantrums. I'll explain to you why I feel past my prime and why my body hates me.
What brought me to the conclusion that I'm getting old, besides the obvious? Sitting. Yes, that's right, sitting. Tonight at work, I became incredibly sore from just doing that simple activity. The same soreness I get from shoveling or trying to run in front of the lady with two cart fulls of food at the grocery store. I even caught myself thinking, "I thought this was supposed to be an orthopedic chair with lower lumbar support?" Who says that? My dad would say that, not this spring chick. But I got to thinking about all the other parts of me that are going to hell. My entire body creaks and cracks, my parents swear they've seen gray hairs (which I believe are extremely blond hairs) and I think I'm starting to grow a moustache. Nothing a little bleach or hedge-trimmer won't get rid of. Now I'm not going to be a whiny, insecure girl that points out everything wrong with herself in the hopes someone will compliment me. But my biggest concern of this moment, are my boobs. Much like T. Swifts' song, they are never, ever, ever getting back together. Like, ever.
I can only dream about trading myself in for a newer model. It's not ok for Brad to dream about trading me in for a newer model. Because I would break that newer model's tailpipe off. I don't even know what that means, but I'd do it anyway. At least I can look at my girls and live vicariously through them, much like my mother did with me and hope that one day, saggy and old is the new thin and 20.