With my 37th birthday rearing it’s ugly head in a month, it’s only natural I get nostalgic and psychotic. Yes, they say “40 is the new 30,” but the last time I glanced in the mirror, I saw my own reflection and not that of Heidi Klum’s.
So last week, in a desperate attempt to stay forever 21, I took 3 pilates lessons, braved a Fly Wheel spin class (in which I’m quite certain I blacked out on at least one occasion), guzzled 5 JugoFresh pressed juices and dined at the freshly minted vegan cafe down the street TWICE, which gave me cramps followed by diarrhea, but I’ll take the runs any day because I lost a pound.
And lest not forget the deteriorating state of my lucidness. While slipping on my 4-year-old son’s jeans and realizing how fast he’s growing — like a damn Sea Monkey, I tell you! — I got all teary eyed and panicked to him, “Please, stop growing. Okay? OKAY? I can’t with you growing so fast! I JUST CAN’T!” He looked at me as though Lighting McQueen sprouted from my head. All confused. Poor fella.
Then there’s the grueling nighttime routine of Retin A, moisturizer, Latisse, creams, lotions, serums, serums and more serums (because Cindy Crawford says they’re the Fountain of Youth — Ponce de Leon was indisputably wrong on that score, too). During my evening Beauty Olympics, I’ll obsessively whine to my husband, “Look at that lovely furrow between my brows! Well, lookie here, another cellulite dimple has kindly taken up residence on my left butt cheek. Did I mention I’m getting that weird crease above my knees like the ones TMZ always blasts Demi Moore about? Hooray!” In turn, he’ll blankly stare at the TV screen in utter defeat (the tall-tale sign of a man who’s just given up on you) and most likely think to himself, “Should I call her parents?”
Over in my closet, none of my Loubs fit because my bunions have grown to rival the size of Kim Kardashian’s engagement ring. Devastating, I tell you.
In other words, I’m going mental. Like, I’m out of my Lululemons.
Clearly, I’m having a Nora Ephron-esque I Feel Bad About My Neck moment which is completely normal for anyone with a pulse. I’m a woman with a gimlet eye for the future. And for those of you who are under age 30, I tell you — walk around naked whenever possible and bask in your gut-free glory.
Now excuse me as I’m off to wallow in self pity over a greasy cheeseburger, fries and custard at Shake Shack. Because that’s what women of a certain age are supposed to do.