Things No One Told Me Would Happen When I Got Older
This isn’t funny anymore. Okay, maybe it is.
I’m ill-prepared for this. Every day I wake up with one more reminder that I am heading around the curve toward 50. I don’t necessarily feel old. I surely don’t act like it. Still, I get little reminders of this like horribly rude Post-it notes someone left in my jacket pocket for me to find. “Your glasses are on your head.” “You have no idea why you’re in this room.” “Sure. Eat that. This should be fun.”
I’ve started taking inventory. I am here to be a cautionary tale and a warning label all in one. Why? Because Judy Blume never got around to writing Are You There God, It’s Me, Menopause. You’re welcome.
I’ve diagnosed myself with a vision problem. We’re starting with the big one as it permeates many of the other issues I’ve discovered as of late. My ailment is called CSS. Can’t see shit. Clearly, this is a medical condition and you won’t find it on WebMD.
It started out a few years ago when I bought my first pair of readers at the grocery store. I put those bad boys on after passing them on the way to the store bathroom because, well, all the peeing. All the time.
Once on my face, I found I could read an actual food label (good feeling gone) and looked vaguely like Tina Fey. What this has turned into is now not being able to see anything. Ever. I can’t see far away. I can’t see close up. My nemesis is a movie with subtitles.
Don’t worry CSS is handy later. We’ll get to that.
My eyelashes have almost completely vacated the premises. I remember my mom coveting my eyelashes when I was younger and telling me how beautiful hers were. Then she had me. I feel the same resentment toward my daughter. I know it’s age and not my sweet child but I’m really good at misplacing my anger, so this is hers.
Now I pay someone the most ridiculous amount of money so my eyes are not bald. I literally spend two hours a month with a lady gluing crap to my eyelids. Somehow, running around toward batting my eyelashes like that huge turkey in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade revitalizes me.
Weight does not move. Forget it. For the last five weeks, I have greatly reduced my carb and alcohol content. I am certain this makes me a delight to be around. I spend at least two hours every Sunday meal prepping and making the healthiest and most delightful meals I can find on Pinterest. Don’t judge me for that. I have lost exactly 2.4 pounds.
My boyfriend lives in another state. Since he moved for work, he has lost a pound a week. He told me this and then had the nerve to text me later from the Jack in the Box drive-thru after watching the basketball game with his buddies. Women can eat six grapes and two ice cubes for dinner and not lose a thing. Men go sit on the couch, think about losing four pounds, and the next day it’s gone. I'm so annoyed with that little fat burner.
I no longer have any idea how to dress myself. If you told me you wanted to go shopping, I would panic. I don’t know how to shop. I have no idea what a woman “my age” wears. I think it’s whatever the hell I want but I fear that while my intention is to look like a bad ass Helen Mirren, I’m going to end up looking like Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company. Caftans are cool, right?
I’m not sure I can pull off half the stuff I just ordered off of Amazon but there is no way in hell I am going to succumb to Chico’s. If I tell you I just bought a cute blouse at Chico’s, you need to contact the authorities. It’s a distress signal. Also, my friend Brenna, who is in her mid-20s, has informed me that I can’t be seen after dark in anything that would be called a blouse. I don’t know what to do with that.
I am a 47-year-old woman with acne medication. My face breaks out like a teenage boy. Turns out, I have too much testosterone and not enough estrogen. Basically, I’m like the Incredible Hulk with a period. Cool. Cool. That’s going to end well. Mine you, I have not fully gone through menopause. I’m just teetering there like a car dangling off a cliff in an action movie. Flames are eminent.
Hair now abundantly grows in places where I did not plan it to grow. I’d like to say I discovered this on my own. That is not the case. A couple of months ago, I was moisturizing my face with one of the 18 serums I now use when my boyfriend, who was sitting on a bench behind me, casually grabbed a very long hair on the back of my knee. Super fun. “I think you missed something…” he said in his please-don’t-hit-me voice. Thanks for pointing that out you fat-burning freak of nature.
I have never, to my knowledge, had hair on the back of my knees. I blame this on the CSS. I mean, for the love of God, how am I supposed to see that hair when I’m shaving my legs in the shower without my reading glasses? They fog up when I try.
Don’t worry if you don’t shower with your cheaters or don’t have a darling fat furnace boyfriend to painfully pluck stray hairs from your body. Just wait for any windy day when you wear shorts that that sucker just blows in the wind. It will make its presence know as it just flaps there like a windsock.
I am so sorry to be the bearer of this joyful news. If you are not at this station in your life yet, I apologize for how you will feel when you get out of bed at 6:30 in the morning and the creases on your chest from sleeping on your side are still there at 10:15.
Please know, that you have sisters all around you. We’re easy to spot. We’re the ones in the grocery store with our arms extended as far as they can be because we don’t realize our reading glasses are on our heads. We think they’re sunglasses. And, we promise that if we ever see you heading toward a Chico’s we will tackle you like we’re a middle linebacker out to crush skulls. You’ve been warned.
Navigating that midlife awakening and trying to figure out what to do with it. I got you. Get on my mailing list now! I have exciting things coming up! You don’t want to miss it.
Vanessa Torre is a writer and a midlife coach for women looking to make remarkable changes so they can live a creative, fulfilling, and profitable life. Learn more at www.vanessatorre.com.
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