Now I’ll Cry Before I Get Old

I never gave much thought to aging and its unsavory effects. I never brooded about birthdays, or concealed my age, or hid my grays (OK, I pluck sometimes), or even owned a scale. But on Sunday, after a fabulous birthday dinner with friends in which much champagne and spicy food were consumed—and after which I got maybe six hours of sleep, an eternity in my twenties but downright sparse in my thirties—I awoke looking like Nick Nolte’s mug shot. A deep crevice split my forehead, which the Internet informed me was a “liver line.” My mouth felt like dry tissue paper. My gray hairs shot up at odd angles, I had purple circles under my eyes, and my skin felt like a clammy, overripe avocado. I gasped, then groped for my Advil and Tums.

Which, I realized then, I keep at my bedside all the time.

I guess, in actuality, I’ve been making little provisions for my age recently—gradual enhancements, like keeping the Tums in easy reach. Here are a few things I can’t do now that I’m older. What are yours?

1. I cannot scarf down Chipotle burritos, chili cheese dogs, lamb vindaloo, or leftover Chinese (hot or cold) without giving myself immediate heartburn. Honestly, who can eat this stuff? People with steel guts and tapeworm?

2. Also, I cannot eat whatever I want anymore without looking like a cinderblock. In actuality, I probably haven’t been able to eat with abandon since about age 25. But for some reason, my brain continues to think I’m living on a post-college-the-rules-don’t-apply-to-me diet, even though my Spanx sometimes need Spanx of their own.

3. I can’t drink. Coffee keeps me up at night. So does tea. I need to stop eating and drinking by at least 8 p.m. unless I want to be up until 2 a.m. Googling “urinary incontinence.” Oh, and drinking-drinking? My recovery time is about three times as long as it was a few years ago, and the wine bloat is pretty much instant.

4. Exercise is not a hobby: It’s a necessity. I have rendered myself a hunchback not once but twice hoisting Andrew from the bathtub. I need to bend at my knees. And, much to my dismay, wearing yoga pants all the time isn’t the same thing as actually doing yoga.

5. Sleep. I need it. In the past, eight hours seemed like something sweet, a goal to aspire to but not exactly essential. Now, if I don’t get eight hours, I’m surly and really need that coffee, which will in turn give me indigestion and keep me up until 2 a.m.

6. I can’t go out two nights in a row. Just can’t do it. In my twenties, down time was the enemy. I went somewhere every night of the week. Not only is this impractical with a small child (and expensive, too), but my soul whips into some kind of hermetic rebellion if I’m away from my comfort zone too much. I long for my books, my remote control, and easy couch-side banter with my husband. (OK, actually it’s our back-to-back laptops making the conversation with one another, but still.) My frump-a-thon flannels call to me.

I’m not complaining—it’s just the cold hard truth. I had an amazing birthday with great friends old and new, a fantastic husband, parents who actually still give their thirty-something daughter a birthday present, and a toddler who crafted an adorable card at his new coloring “workstation.” I ate and drank and hooted with abandon. I’m happy and relatively healthy. I’m just glad I have Advil and Tums next to my bed in the morning … and a date with my yoga teacher, followed by a date or three with my couch, this week.

Sunday was my coming-of-old-age moment. What was yours?

P.S. The other day I found myself crying, actually crying, at the lyrics to John Mellencamp's "Cherry Bomb." You know: "Seventeen has turned thirty-five..." I hope my musical taste doesn't decline with age, too.