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Man…. I only have 16 more days of “early-twenties” left in my life. I am officially depressed about this. I was getting ready this morning and I realized that I am covered in age spots and tiny little wrinkles around my eyes. And of course I have that big wrinkle on my forehead. And I could swear I’m getting some corner-of-the-mouth wrinkles, probably from all the frowning I do. The skin around my eyes is all dry and I finally know what those wrinkle cream commercials are talking about when they refer to “crepe-ing” or however you spell it. My eyes are crepe-y!
I don’t want to turn 26. I want to stay 25 forever! Do you remember when you were about 16 and you would see your friends’ older siblings who were maybe 22 and think, “Sweet jesus that guy is practically ancient! He must have grown-up problems like what kind of beer to buy and what kind of clothes to wear from Abercrombie.” And then when you got to college and everyone over about 22 seemed like an old fart who had no party left in them? 25 year olds simply cannot party… duh. They are too busy raising families and dealing with arthritis. And I’m pretty sure people over 30 didn’t exist in my universe until very recently. I was in denial or something.
My last birthday really sucked. Turning a “quarter century” just isn’t fun, no matter how you look at it. Well, maybe it would be fun if you were some kind of cancer survivor and living until 25 was an accomplishment. I just remember waking up on my 25th birthday and thinking how much my back hurt. And how much I needed a strong cup of coffee. And then my dad told me that when he turned 25, he cried. Oy vey. To make matters worse, John’s birthday isn’t until May. So this means I am officially “older” than him. HE’S the spring chicken. HE’S as fresh as a daisy. Not ME.
I try to remember my wrinkle creams every morning and night, but I guess I still have that youthful habit of passing out in bed with my contacts in, my face unwashed, and the tv on. I guess it doesn’t really matter, because according to Consumer Reports, wrinkle creams really don’t do a bit of good– and they tested them all. Just wear sunscreen and keep your skin hydrated, they say. That really takes all the fun out of it, don’t you think? I liked hanging on to the hope that a miracle-in-a-jar existed.
So when I wake up on November 29th, I will officially enter the “mid-twenties,” or for you pessimists out there, the “late-twenties.” (I cringe even typing that.) I expect to see this in the mirror:
I will let you know how the birthday goes. But don’t be surprised if my keyboard malfunctions due to excessive crocodile tear exposure.