Had I known that being 40+ would be like this I may have opted to avoid it all together. My hope is that at some point some woman who is approaching 45 will read this and take a quick fucking detour.
My brain is unwavering in it’s believe that we’re still about 29. This creates an assortment of amusing albeit, depressing realizations.
When I turned 40, I swear, I woke up one day, felt a little bump on my chin and scratched at it a bit. Thinking it was a pimple, which I so very rarely get, I did what any self-respecting woman would do…I dug at the little fucker until it erupted.What I found was more horrifying than I had ever expected.
You know those giant cakes? The one’s with the semi-naked male stripper inside. On queue they jump out of the cake and everyone yells “Surprise!” and then you all get drunk and party your asses off and start fighting over who’s going to take home his G-string and his fedora?
Yeah…this was not like that.
What it was like, was a huge, disgusting, revolting, goat hair. Yes. Yes it was.
That son-of-a-bitch had coiled up in the follicle for Holy Hannah who knows how long! It had to be at least an inch long. Thick, coarse and black as coal. I’m a Ginger…how does that even happen?
A little piece of me died that day.
No one told me it would happen. I was flabbergasted.
So now I conduct a daily “goat hair locate and eradicate” mission. The slightest little prickle and I run for the tweezers. Much to my Husbands amusement. I don’t imagine he’d find it so funny if I just let the damn things multiply and grow freely. Which they do…I now have several on my chin and one on my upper lip. Rotten, stupid goat hairs. If I let them go, I’d have an enviable beard and ‘stache. Maybe I’ll get a little “Foo Man Chu” of my own going…
If it hasn’t happened to you…wait for it. It will. Those nasty little goat hairs are just laying in wait and when they are satisfied that you are at an emotionally unstable point in your middle agedness…WHAM! There they are.
On to the next joy of ageing.
Really? Numb toes…isn’t that, oh I dunno…something to be concerned about?
Apparently not. According to my Family Doctor this is normal. Expected. Nothing to be at all concerned about.
It’s not just one toe. It’s three on one foot and two on the other. He says I shouldn’t worry…”it’s not like they’re going to fall off”… they still do what toes are supposed to do, which is basically to stop you from falling on your face, and if you have monkey feet like my husband you can even retrieve dropped items off the floor with out having to bend over and pick them up with your hands.
He suggested I rub my feet. Now I have to tell you that I have a terrible “foot phobia”. Feet are revolting and gross. The idea of having my own dry, calloused, stinky feet in my nice clean hands is horrifying. Having my dry, calloused, stinky feet in someone else’s hands is even more revolting. Feet are creepy. Feet are the lowest part of the human’s anatomy and they are so for a reason. They were never meant to be babied and coddled because they are lesser appendages than hands. Rub my feet? Fuck no.
I was at the Nail Salon a few years back, having my gel nails removed. It’s a bit of a process. While my nails were soaking in pure acetone, the girl decided that she’d give me a “treat”. She reached down, took my filthy, stinking, foot out of my flip flop with her bare hands, and placed my foot into her lap.
I gagged. “Oh…no, no,no…you don’t want to…no really…”
“No, no it’s okay I do a design for you…you like it.”
“No…reallllly. I don’t like it…”
She laughed and continued to paint a lovely little design on my nasty old big toe. I protested a bit more when she was done and reached for my other foot. She ignored me and laughed some more, “You like it…it’s okay! One day you get pedicure…I do for you!….You like it!…you see…”
Then all the girls started yammering away in Vietnamese and laughing. They all kept saying “You like it…it’s okay!”
Anyway, numb toes. Perfectly normal. Expect it.
Then there are the silent conversations your conscious mind is not aware of. These are the conversations that occur between your brain, which still thinks it’s 29, and your body which, by 40, is convinced it’s nearing
Your brain is like, “Wooohooo! Yess! I can totally lift that 60lb box up over my head and get it on the shelf! I am amazing!”
Your body is like, “I dare you bitch. I just dare you.”
So your brain, against the better judgement of your body, goes ahead and sends a command to, grab that box and heft it like you’re the goddamn Hulk.
The body reluctantly complies. Gently lifts one corner of the box to get some fingers underneath…
“Holy Shit this is heavy…” it says.
“Nah…it’s not heavy at all, c’mon…don’t be such a fucking baby…lift it…” taunts your brain.
Your arms, legs and lower back are all chiming in now, ” Are you out of your fucking punkin? There is absolutely no…”
“LALALALALALALA I can’t hear you……” teases your brain in a sing-song tone. “LALALALALALALALALA HAHAHAHAHAHA”
The next thing you know, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing so hard you feel like your eyes are going to pop out of their sockets, sweating like a Hooker in a one-armed circle jerk (saying courtesy of my Husband) looking up at a 60lb box on the shelf and wondering, “How in the fucking hell did that get up there?” and “Holy Shit I think I broke something…” and then you beg the cat to grow opposable thumbs and get you some Advil and a glass of water, to which he responds by purring like an idiot and biting your numb toes, that are attached to the legs that you can now barely feel, as they dangle off the bed.
These are just three of my top irritations with being over 40. It blows. It has a few perks…like hindsight and the ability to be acutely aware of your own mortality. Especially as you lay on the bed confused, broken and in pain, as a cat nibbles on your numb and disgusting toes, gently rubbing your chin looking for goat hairs. You have a lot of time for contemplation at this moment.