521 months/plenty of mileage

Do you want to know how old I am? 43. I don’t attach any angst to that number (it’s just a number). At all. I think 43’s great. I’m thinking 44 is going to be fine too (but we don’t have to rush; I’ve got about 7 months left for 43). Like many other wise women have said before me, I wouldn’t be 23 again for a bazillion dollars. I wouldn’t be 17 again either (in case you’re wondering). I think 43 suits me just fine.

*Do you want to know how much I weigh? That’s a number too, right? I’ll tell you, but I won’t tell you over the Internet, for crying out loud. I have a bit of angst about that number. I’m pretty sure no one is reading this blog, but I’m not going to put That Number on the Internet for the whole world to see. I’ve got a good self image, but even that has its limits. 

The beauty of getting older, as others more talented then me (yes, you, Delia Ephron, and you, Anna Quindlen) have observed, is that there’s freedom in age. My current personal motto (subject to change) is Keep your crazy to yourself. I’ve got my enough of my own to manage, thanks. Although I haven’t spoken these words aloud in the appropriate situation, just thinking them brings me great solace, and prevents me from stroking out when confronted by empirical evidence of all the Crazy in the world. But really, Crazy in the World (Yours, Mine, and Theirs) is a post for another day.

We bought a new car recently and as one of the options the dealership offered as we were finalizing the deal was the choice to purchase additional warranty months. So if the car has 36 months/36,000 miles of coverage (or whatever), you could opt to pay a little money and get a few more months and miles. (We declined; I am married to a person who — as best I can tell from almost 18 years of marriage — is unable to own a car for longer than a 3 year stretch. He is what we call a Car Person. If you are one, or married to one, this needs no explanation.) I digress.

The warranty offer coincided with a fresh bout of knee pain and reminded me of a comment that my loving spouse made one time when it  appeared that yet another of my body parts decided to get wonky: “Time to trade you in for a younger model.” Ha ha. Hilarious. (He also said {probably after an athroscopic knee surgery or gall bladder attack or something}, “Damn, if you were a horse we’d have to shoot you.” This sounds more callous than I took it — I had to agree with him because after enduring whatever it was, I felt pretty crummy and horse-like.)

Anyhoo, although my attitude is sassy and spunky and younger than springtime, it would appear that my warranty is just about up. The Good Knee has gone Bad (forcing me to reconsider how I am supposed to differentiate those joints to myself and others). The Vision — magically corrected by Lasik 13 years ago, is starting to go. (Happily my arms remain long enough for me to sit back and read while I type, but I fear the day is coming when I shall have to get a wireless keyboard in order to sit across the room from the monitor.) Turns out reading glasses are NOT a sign of the Apocalypse, but a lovely addition to the supplies I must bring to bed if I wish to read (including and not limited to: the Kindle, a book light, and the charging cord. Also, the iPad, in case I have to either purchase a new book or look something up. There’s lots of hardware.) (Oh, and a glass of water. Hydration remains important.)

My attention span? That’s a good one. Span would imply a period of time, perhaps a longish period of time, and I actually don’t have that kind of time. Suffice to say, my on-board computer is acting up. The Nav system is still good, but those memory buttons are really shot. Why did I come in here? Why did I just log on to the computer?

*I drove the kids to school the other day, and as I pulled into the lot I said, out loud, “Where am I going?” I was (half) joking — I knew where I was, but I was thinking out loud about where I should drop off and/or park. My Sophomore girl said, “To school, duh,” (she’s not dumb, the “duh” was implied and not uttered) to which I replied, “Who am I? Where am I? Who are you?” and we laughed. For now. (Cue ominous music.)

I have a friend who’s scheduled for a face lift in a couple of weeks. (She’s not 43; she’s a little bit older than me.) I say, good for her. But I say that through lips that are a bit immobile due to my manipulations in the mirror: would those giant lines in my face be smoothed out a bit with a pull here, a tuck there? We call them laugh lines? Then apparently I’ve lived a life filled with comedians, because I have laugh lines you could fall into, never to be seen again. (No tripping near my face, please.) I don’t want to fill anything, or plump anything, or paralyze anything, or even lift anything (yet), but I do see how 43+ years of living can make a dent. My husband likes that “ding protection” insurance you can get for a new car.…it’s probably not available any longer for this 1968 model.

*Why am I thinking about any of this on a lovely Thursday afternoon, when I could be out collecting vitamin D (and adding insult to the injury of the lines in my face by exposing it to the UVA/B’s of this sunny day)? As I was waiting for WordPress to load — the poor site was probably in shock that I logged in at all {yes, yes, it’s been a while} — I went to wash my hands and after doing so, lifted my head to look in the mirror. 

When I did, I actually, {in my head,not out loud [this time]} said, “Aaah!” in my internal surprised voice because the person in the mirror startled me. You know that’s a damn shame when you scare yourself. And it’s perhaps even more of a shame when you scare yourself AND YET you’re cleaned up and {ostensibly} put together. (Read: I showered.) My second thought, after the silent scream, was “Wow, you look OLD.” Way to sugar coat it, Self, thanks. 

I had a really good ending for this post, but I can’t remember what it was. I just know that it was going to be a snappy, good ending for this ramble — but it’s totally gone now. Totally.  I’m going to go top off my fluids and see if it comes back to me. I’d hate to void what’s left of my warranty through misuse or abuse.

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8 Responses to “521 months/plenty of mileage”

  1. Suniverse Says:

    I’m also 43 — I’ll be 44 in a couple of months.

    Except for the whole body betraying me by making me EXHAUSTED all the time, I like this age, because I’m starting to just not care. You’re right — it is freeing.

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