I turned another year older this weekend. It sort of snuck up on me, and the next thing I knew, I was being held hostage by the Specter of Old Age. It held a gun to my head with one liver-spotted hand, breathing hot old-person smell down my neck, threatening to change every CD in my car to “Now That’s What I Call Christmas, Volume 3!” or Josh Groban’s latest stool softener if I didn’t face facts: I am one year older and have no business wearing short skirts, ironic T-shirts, or Winnie the Pooh footy pajamas. An alarm will blare should I feel an urge to watch MTV, eat extremely sour candy, or say “Dude.”
Note the first piece of evidence in my compendium of aging: the presence of Flintstones-era CDs in my car, as opposed to the more Jetsonian iPod.
Now, I hardly had to look at the calendar yesterday to know I was officially a year older. I merely had to examine the evidence in the Specter’s dossier on my gradual cellular breakdown:
Exhibit A: As of one week ago, I own a compost tumbler. Because this is not an item I would have owned at age 22, I feel it’s safe to present as further evidence that I am getting funky-old.
Exhibit B: I got my first skin tag last week. It arrived to coincide with my birthday, of that I’m convinced. So in denial was I that I concluded it was simply a zit. Picking ensued. And now what do I have? A bloody skin tag. Thanks, Specter of Old Age.
Exhibit C: I recently purchased my first pair of binoculars, and they’re not for spying on the neighbors. They’re actually for bird watching.
Well, okay, maybe just a little spying on the neighbors.
But the birthday itself was fun. I celebrated with both friends and family and stuffed my face three days in a row. Let the post-binge remorse begin! I don't yet have a baby formed with my own DNA, but I have one helluva food baby made from ice cream cake.
Hey Star Wars fans (how’s that for an abrupt shift in topic?), here’s something fun: this was filmed at one of my favorite Wisconsin grocery stores, Willy Street Coop in Madison. I think I enjoyed episode three the most.
Finally, if the blog is quiet for a few days, it means I am either suffering from a work-related neurotic episode or working on my next novel. Mostly, it’s the latter. I’m trying to write from two very different alternating points of view, and it’s making me feel schizophrenic. It also sucks the clever out of me, so most of my original or mildly entertaining thinking is being diverted at the moment. At least it seems entertaining at the time, and especially after a few glasses of wine. So I could be wrong.