Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Growing Up and Graying

When I was 15 it took me 15 minutes to do my makeup and hair, and not to flatter myself, but it was near perfect.  Now, after a good 45 minutes with my professional grade hair dryer, top of the line straightener, complete system of hair product, 5 piece skin care system, spackle, and a drawer full of makeup...it's hardly an improvement. 

At 18, dating was fun.  No pressure, no one worrying (Mom) that they'd never have grandchildren, no one saying "I wish I had someone I could fix you up with."  Now, friends and family are openly concerned about my singledom, and begin to frantically find and offer to pay for singles mixers in hopes of me finding my future husband.

When I was 21 I walked around in 4 inch heels everywhere.  On my walk through Mt. Vernon from the parking lot to work, nights out at the local bar, dancing, dinner, or, just around my house.  And other than that one time, I never (hardly ever) fell.  Now, I trip up and down steps, fall into my house, slip at work, step on my own foot, etc, pretty much on daily basis.  Sometimes more than once.  Don't judge me.

When I was 23 I was still young enough to go out at 10, drink til 2, sleep 4 hours, wake up, and work as if nothing had happened.  Now?  I go out until 2, and the next morning I accidentally wash my hair with body wash instead of shampoo.

At 25 I loved to spend my money on things like makeup, shoes, bags, and jewelry.  And now, as much as I love those things, I put them off in order to save money for my favorite time of the year, Dollar Days at my local liquor store, to ensure I can stock my wine cabinet enough to get me through 6 months until the next sale.

29. Oh, 29.  I don't know how I got here but I sure am starting to feel it.  The roots of my hair are growing in as a color I'd rather not mention, so clearly, I no longer color my hair just for fun.  Instead of late night partying, I have a glass (bottle) of wine with my roommate, fall asleep watching DWTS, and wake up at 2am on the couch with whiplash from sleeping on the couch.  Blind dates are no longer funny stories to entertain with at the Thanksgiving dinner table, but mere failure tales of a relationship that might have been.  (Actually, my blind date stories are still pretty funny.)

Before 30, I'm rebelling against aging.  I just may have to invest in collagen producing makeup and 5-hr energy shots before I hit the big nights out.  Oh!  And walk slowly and carefully in heels, because there's nothing worse than falling down the steps at a bar.  Total buzz kill.  So I've heard.  Not from personal experience. 

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