Last week, I found myself sitting in an optometrist’s office trying on name-brand frames in tortoiseshell and slate. Are my eyes really positioned this close together, I thought glasses were supposed to make me look more like a sexy sophisticate and less like a coupon clipper?
Precisely one year back, I spent a Tuesday afternoon wrapped in an opened-back gown sliding head-first into a machine designed to demystify my neck pain. They call it an MRI; I call it one step closer to the grave.
As I write, my muffin-top-inducing, low-rise jeans from 2002 are cutting off my circulation and I’m wearing shoes that boast quality craftsmanship. Which is a fancy way of saying they reduce lower back pain and have been engineered to drive up sales among nurse practitioners.
Just to round out the full picture of my condition, Murder She Wrote plays in the background WITH CLOSED CAPTIONING TURNED ON.
The not-so-subtle point I’m trying to make is that post-40s is a bitch and my body’s literally falling apart as I observe helplessly from this side of the mirror.
Was that wrinkle there yesterday? Which side is my good side—just in case I take a picture? Why didn’t I start flossing two decades ago or heed warnings that my skin would melt off if I didn’t wash my face every night?
Is it too late to start working on my personality?
Well, this old broad ain’t going down without a fight—even if I have to learn more about vinyasa flow or acquaint myself with some newfangled thing the kids are calling Warby Parker.
Monday—3.5 mile walk
Tuesday—4 mile run
Thursday—4.5 mile run
Saturday—4 mile walk
Sunday—3 mile run, upper body
Now, off to change my diaper.