that getting older thing....

It's my daughter's 10th birthday in a few weeks.  And for some reason... that makes me feel old.  I remember when she was born thinking... when she's 10.. I'll be 42 (almost 43!)  Yikes.  Time really does go by quickly.  Here it is 2012.  And I'm 42.  Almost 43. I'm not too sure I'm ready.  I don't want to get any older!  Let me tell you a few observations that have been flipping through my brain as of late:

While watching “Moneyball,” I spent most of the movie cheering on Brad Pitt’s deep forehead wrinkles because if Brad can pull off his then clearly I'm pulling off mine.

When my children ask if me if I would take them swimming at the Aquatic Center, my first thought is “Damn it, I’ll need to wax.”  My second thought is “Where can I buy a suit with one of those skirts attached?”

I spend an inordinate amount of time massaging cream on the backs of my hands because I read somewhere that you can tell a woman’s real age by the look of her hands (and not her smooth-as-ice, botoxed-forehead).  Sure.  I remember my grandma’s hands.  Dry and bony and so NOT what’s going to happen to mine.

When I see a young mother struggling with her young children at the grocery store, I resist the urge to say, “You’ll look back on these years with such longing.  They grow up so quickly” because I thought those women were crazy.   And annoying.   And clueless.  Then, you say it.   Because it’s SO true.

I’ve stopped ranting against the Kardashian sisters and Snooki because I know it’s just a matter of time before they go the way of Paris Hilton and ah, how I'’ll enjoy the ensuing moments of dignified quiet.  That is, until they’re replaced by the next crop of media-whoring, sorry-excuse-for-a-role-model-to-young-women ladies scrambling to grace the cover of OK! Magazine.   And yes, I did just say whoring.  And I meant it.

I use inappropriate words without remorse because I’ve seen enough bullshit to last me the next forty two years... and some days, I just want to call a clown “a clown”and a donkey “an ass.”  Even when the circus ain’t in town.

I panic when I enter a bookstore.  So many books.  So little time.

At the doctor’s office, I not only read the articles about 50+ year old actresses lamenting the loss of strong, sexy roles with a sense of dread and foreboding, but I find myself slathering on more hand cream as I read.

I can’t stop using the expression, “That’s ’cause you know where your bread is buttered.”    Not sure why.  But it works.  In so many contexts.

A day of lugging cases and cases of Girl Scout cookies around hurts at night.  A bottle of wine hurts in the morning.  But kisses and hugs make it all better.  And 5 tablets of Motrin.