This Whole Aging Thing Is Novel Territory.
I didn’t plan this well, this whole aging thing. I mean, my brain got stuck somewhere between the ages of 16 and 17, and the meter hasn’t budged much since.
I still think young, I act young, and God forbid, I still wear shorts! Some people, who won’t be named (you know who you are), think I’m too old to wear shorts. My butt, by the way, my booty, that is in said shorts, is tiny. I do not have a big booty. At this stage of the game, I suppose that will have to suffice.
It’s not like I’m really impressing anyone anymore, though I daresay it could happen! The impressing someone thing, with my cute ass. You know, miracles and all that.
As I mentioned though, the aging thing? It kinda sneaked up on me. I did not prepare well. I mean, I had the flossing thing down — that’s one thing we all get trained for, right? And I hope you are, flossing that is — it’s important, trust me. This is about the only Oprah “The thing I know for sure” thing! But the aging part? Mm? Novel territory.
Now I did, of course, notice along the way the plethora of people getting lots of injections, and nips and tucks, which I also noticed sometimes ended up looking hella awful afterwards — that should’ve given me some warning of what may be coming down my geriatric pipeline. The wrinkle thing, the sag thing, the where in the hell did this extra flap of skin come from thing. Yeah, total bummer.
It’s kind of a new dimension. It really began when I got caught, literally, with my pants not zipped up. ‘Cause, yeah, that happened. A few extra inches of belly fat seem to come with the prize of surviving past 40. I was nowhere near ready, set, go on any of this! I entered a very unhappy bod zone, which felt like a permanent sentence, with a no-exit sign.
What really put me on notice though was my health insurance. Around this point, insurance companies start freakin’ out on you, and your rates keep going up and up and up, as if they know for sure you’re gonna die! So, they don’t like you much anymore, and they want lots more money to cover your big, or little, ass. You are not, as they say, a good risk.
In California, where I live, we have that Covered CA insurance thing, until it’s decimated by the powers that be, or until you reach 65! Okay, cool. No matter. I’ll just choose to not go to doctors.
I don’t jive with all that pharmacopoeia anyway, nor do I feel in the mood to opt for any non-mandatory surgical slice-and-dice, or ingesting any of the mystery drugs they love to dispense — the ones with the never-ending list of side effects! These do not even come close to the sides you get in a restaurant — side of fries, side of tots, side of slaw. Drug sides overpower the main dish (that would be me), and can kill ya.
Still, that didn’t stop me from turning 65. Turned that is, ever so fatefully, three days after Xmas. This evil deed had been bestowed upon my sweet, unsuspecting newborn self, because three days after Xmas, everyone in my family was clawing their way through their own personal Armageddon, in the form of all matter of alcoholic comas, from all manner of holiday shenanigans.
Understandably, not one single human relative was interested in celebrating this tiny tot’s birthday, with only three days left to regroup for the upcoming New Year’s Eve debacle.
So, yeah. Do not get born on 12/28. I’m telling you. It’s not a great start. The issue for me is, it’s too late. It’s in the books. Done. Solid. And Medicare knows this, and keeps sending me those letters I didn’t open… until I did. The letters say I have to sign up for Medicare, or I’ll be penalized. Um, is that a threat? It feels like a threat, or at the very least some sort of financial threat, but a threat nonetheless.
Okay, fine. I know there are some of you who love Medicare. You go! I mean, I just don’t like being forced to do anything. Least of all, be penalized for growing, uh, somewhat gracefully, into my Six Oh’s.
P.S. Ladies, here’s a definite recommendation from this old lady. Get your sweet tush to a Boudoir photographer ASAP! She will make you feel gorgeous, and sexy, no matter how old, or what shape you are! And the only slice-and-dice is on a computer, digitally, so no blood!
Paulina Graziose is an author and mother, aging not so gracefully, but she’s workin’ on it. She’s proud of her small butt. You could contact her via her website.