Aging

The other day I was rushing though that favorite of all middle-aged moms store, Walmart, and I ran into someone I hadn't seen in about 7 years. We hugged, smiled and I said, "You look great!", to which she smiled and said nothing in return. OK, I was wearing baggy, possibly holey, sweats, had dirty hair and no makeup, but throw me a bone, OK? We talked some more, went our separate ways, and then it hit me.

I'm not aging well.

It has snuck up on me subtly, like a small child who is right on your heels but who you don't see until you turn and trip on her. It seemed like yesterday that I was young, looked young, acted young. I took "aging well" for granted because my mother always looked 20 years younger than she was (she did really well at that Six Flags game where a teenager guessed your age...we were guaranteed a stuffed toy out of that), and I assumed that I would "inherit that".

Not so much.

About six months ago, I came out of the bathroom with a new concern. "Honey, I must have eaten something, look how swollen my eyes are!". Mr. herewegoagain came and looked and agreed and we both talked about food allergies and puffy eyes and swollen faces. It was days later when I realized, Nope, this is why people have face lifts. My eyes had FALLEN. Drooped. I think what I was suddenly allergic to was SALT!

Oprah was my hero. She is 50 and looks fabulous. I mean, the best part is that she looked pretty darn un-fabulous at about my age. I want to know, does she have cellulite on her upper arms and ankles as well as the usual places? Does she have to lift and clean her belly before she puts it into some wonderful undergarment? I know she is worth billions and has access to the best of surgery, diet, exercise, surgery, --not to mention lighting and camera angles, but still, she gave all us old broads hope.

Then I saw the episode where she went shopping for puppies. Incognito, I guess...but there went my pipe dream. ARGH! Mental note to self...no video cameras in the wee hours at the herewegoagain house. Ever.

It doesn't help that people keep telling Mr. herewegoagain that he couldn't possibly be 47, that he couldn't possibly have perfect daughter in college, yak and yak. Which he shares with me with great glee over dinner. At least he gave me some humor for my blog when he turned to me last night and said, "If you ever let me talk you into working out with me, you could write about that".

Now THAT was funny.