I think I'm growing a hump (and other stories)

*Author's note:  If you're under 40 and can't relate to this AT ALL, just wait.  It's called middle-age, people, and it's coming for you.

I'm starting to accept the fact that I'm not getting any younger. 

Okay, that's a lie.  I'm starting to accept the fact that I can't afford the type of surgical procedures that will delay the aging process. 

At first I decided to just go with it and embrace my inner Crone.  I was all, "I'm turning 40!  It won't be so bad... 40 is the new 30!" 

I lost a shit ton of weight, got new boobs and a hot young husband (not necessarily in that order... first I got the husband, then I lost the weight.  The boobs were kind of a necessity after the weight loss left the old ones hanging down around my knees) and was Loud and Proud about being Forty And Fabulous.

And then I turned 48... then 49... and lied to myself for 364 days about how "50 is the new 40!" even though no one ever, EVER says that. EVER.  Then on December 19th, 2012, 24 hours before my birthday, I flung myself face down on my bed and sobbed about the fact that I was this close  to being half a century old.

Half a century.

That's freaking old, y'all.

I made a daring decision to Not Turn 50.  If  I refused to acknowledge it, it wouldn't happen.  Denial IS your best friend.  I staged a protest, had a sit in, drank copious amounts of vodka, and refused to answer the phone on December 20th (because if one single person had called and said "Happy 50th Birthday!" shit would have gone down, and gone down hard).

Shockingly, despite my efforts, I turned 50 anyway.   (Time is kind of a motherfucker, in case you are under 40 and didn't know.)


And I learned why nobody says "50 is the new 40!":

Because it isn't.  50 is the same old rat bastard it's always been.

Which brings me to turning 51 half a year ago.

51. 51, in case you can't do the math, is older than 50.  It's more than Half a Century.  Which means, in technical turns, I'm almost 100.

And things are starting to fall apart.

Like my face, for example.


I've always had a great relationship with my face.  I like my face.  It's been a good face over the years.

It has all the right features, in basically the right places:  Two eyes a reasonable distance apart, one nose that is well-centered and doesn't dominate the middle of my face, a mouth with teeth that haven't decayed yet and made their appearance in somewhat straight lines, a chin that pokes out and doesn't sink into my neck...

 It's served me well over time, you know?  It didn't get pimply in high school, it didn't get too wrinkled from all the sun I exposed it to during my "I Don't Care If I Get Skin Cancer And Die... I'll Look Hot In My Coffin With My Killer Tan!" years, and though it ballooned up on the feeding frenzy known as my "Let Me Eat Cake Every Day" years, it slimmed right back down during my "I Refuse To Be 40 And Fat" years without any horrible side-effects (I am chronically horrified yet fascinated by the falling faces of the people who appear on shows like My 600 Lb Life.  They look like melting candles.  There but for the Grace of God and excellent genetics could have goneth I).  My cheekbones stayed resistant to gravity, my double chin turned back into one, my neck didn't resemble a turkey and I never grew an eyebrow hair anywhere it didn't belong.

Until recently.

Slowly but surely, things are starting to change.

And not for the best.

The Asshole known as  Father Time finally caught up with me, and he is kicking. my. ass.

My eyelids are drooping, my forehead is begging for Botox, my nasal-labial folds (which makes it sound like I have a vagina on my face) are becoming slightly more prominent, and I'm getting age spots on my right cheek.

Age spots.

AGE SPOTS.

(The last time I went to the salon and had my hair colored, my stylist spent 5 minutes trying to rub one off because she thought she had gotten dye on my cheek.  THAT wasn't awkward AT ALL.)

I will now share with you a deep, dark secret that no one tells you until it's too late:

As you grow older, one of two things will eventually happen.

1.  Your eyebrows will sprout like weeds OR

2.  They will disappear completely.

There is no happy medium.

My brows fall into the second category. 

Where I used to have two very nice eyebrows, I now have none. 

So I have (or so I thought) perfected the art of drawing them on.

As it turns out, if you put your make-up on in a low-light room, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in bright light, you wind up looking like this:

Which may or may not have happened to me yesterday.

Yesterday was a bad day.

Yesterday was one of those days that gives you an atomic wedgy in front of your crush then knocks you down and kicks sand in your face.  Yesterday was one of those days that steals your boyfriend, tells your mother you smoke, and puts your bra in the freezer at a slumber party.  Yesterday was one of those days that pretends to be your friend and then talks about you behind your back.

Yesterday was a real asshole.

I had to run some errands so I put myself together bright and early.  I left the house feeling pretty good about myself.  Hair was behaving, face was working, clothes fit... all positives in my life.  I was wearing a cute sundress and awesome shoes and overall, I felt like, if not a million bucks, at least 20, ya know?  I left the house with a song in my heart and a credit card in my wallet, ready to do a tiny bit of damage to my bank account.

And then I caught a bright and luminous glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror.

*cue slasher movie music*

Realization hit me over the head like it was mugging me and trying to steal my purse.

Make-up just isn't for fun and games any more.  Now it's a desperate line drawn in the sand.  Too little and I look like I've given up.  Too much and I look like Jackie Stallone.

Shit just got real.



By the time I arrived at my destination (Walmart, people.  Yes, I was going to Walmart.  Because at Walmart?  I am the prettiest girl at the dance) I had managed to convince myself that age is just a number and if I add my numbers together, I am only 6.  Or if I reversed them, I was merely 15.  Either way, I was good to go.

I sashayed through Walmart smiling at all the homely people and feeling beneficent for gracing them with my fabulousness.

And then?

I started to sneeze.

I sneezed, and I sneezed, and I sneezed and I sneezed.

And every time I sneezed...

I peed a little.

I sailed through Walmart peeing on my feet... and I couldn't stop.

Oh, the horror!

Ohhhhh, the humanity!!!!!

Fake it, Danielle!  I said to myself.  Hold your head high, girl... people will just think something in your cart is leaking!  Even though it's coming from underneath your dress and there is no water-like substances in your cart, they will just assume!!! 

I made eye-contact with an elderly woman and she gave me the nod.

She knows, I said to myself.  Fuck!!

I wanted to die.  Not just cease to exist, but actually drop dead right there in Walmart with my tinkled on tootsies pointed skyward, just like the Wicked Witch of the East with the house crushing her body.  (Only without the gawd-awful striped socks and pointy shoes.  I don't care WHAT Stacy and Clinton say, pointy shoes always give you witch feet.  It is a scientific fact.)


Needless to say my wish went un-granted and I spent the rest of the morning in wet shoes and damp underthings smelling faintly of pee-pee and wondering which Old Folks Home my children will put me into. 

Probably one in the mid-West, I decided.  Then they won't have to come and visit their constantly urinating mother and take her for walks in her pissy shoes.

And then I came home and discovered that I'm growing a hump on my back.

Either that, or I'm just really fat right below the back of my neck.

And all my missing eyebrow hairs have relocated to my chin.

Wasn't it just yesterday, I asked myself, that I was graduating from high school?

No, replied Self, yesterday you were refilling your pill organizer because you take so goddamn many that you can't remember if you took them or not.  And you left pasta boiling on the stove for 25 minutes because you forgot you had started cooking it.  Yesterday you discovered that you missed an entire section of your knee while shaving your legs and were closely inspecting a mysterious and suspicious mole that you couldn't remember if you had ever seen before. 


Screw you, Self! 

 

The One With All The Crotch Grabbing

Yesterday was a gorgeous sunny day in northern New York, where I have the misfortune to be living.  (No, really... it's ugly as snot here right now.  I'm all, "This is spring?  Where are the flowers?  Where is the sun?  Where are the leaves on the freaking trees?  Pull your head out of your ass, New York... this isn't spring.  This is Winter:  The Sequel.")   Even though it was sunny it was still cold as the coldest day in a frozen over Hell so imagine my surprise when I saw locals toodling around the neighborhoods in shorts and t-shirts apparently fooled into believing that sun = warmth.   (Which it totally doesn't.  Not here, anyway.  I suffered from California Brain for the first two years I lived here, lulled into a false sense of joy every time the sun shone.  I would traipse outside in my flip-flops and summery clothes and then be bitch-slapped back into reality by a Polar bear demanding that we give him back his vortex.)

Meanwhile, back to the summer weather be-frocked locals:

I was driving home from the dentist and having to take all the back roads because naturally, the entire county is currently under construction and will remain so until the next snow fall.  I was slowly cruising down a neighborhood street when I noticed a man walking his dog.  Awwwwwww, I thought to myself, cuuute doggy!

And that's when doggy's owner besmirched the charming tableau by casually grabbing his crotch.

How lovely, I thought.  Was he afraid it  had fallen off when he stepped off the curb to cross the street?   Does he think he's invisible and no one can see his hand gripping the front of his shorts?

I shook my head and continued on my journey, hoping the man's penis and testes were exactly where he had seen them last.

And then I started noticing something...

Almost every man I saw out and about that day were randomly checking their crotches.  I witnessed crotch checks at the pharmacy,  the post office, and while dog walking.  I saw crotch checks on road side work crews,  in the grocery store, and then, finally, in the living room of my home.

And that is when I snapped.

"Get your freaking hand out of your pants!" I screamed at my husband.  "It's not going anywhere!"

Him:  *shrug*  "What?  I had to rearrange things."

How many "things" are there, for Jesus's own sweet sake?  I can only think of three.  How much disarray can possibly occur while the "things" are safely (you would assume) housed in the pouch of your underwear?

As it turns out, the "things" are constantly having a party down there and occasionally go rogue.

Who knew?  My lady bizness stays calmly in place 24/7.  It's always where I left it, always doing what it's supposed to do, always reliable.  When I need my girl parts, there they are.  I don't need to go looking for them, I don't need to check to make sure they are still there.  I don't have feelings of angst when I'm walking down the street that causes me to randomly shove my hand down my pants to investigate their whereabouts.  I don't need a GPS to locate them and I don't spend any time at all worrying about them.  I don't feel the need to buy them a cellphone so I can keep tabs on them. 

Men's downstairs bizness, however?

As it would seem, not so much.  Those bad boys are, according to my husband, the juvenile delinquents of the body.  They are never where they are supposed to be or doing what they are supposed to do.  The can sneak out the window at night and knock up the neighbor.  They are always out carousing, getting drunk, hitting on strangers, and looking for mischief.  They need constant supervision and can't be trusted alone for one. single. second.

I'm not sure what else goes on down there but it can't be good.  My 17 year old nephew is constantly kicking one of his legs out when he walks, apparently trying to shake things loose.  (I can't even begin to tell you how irritating that is.)  Or while he's in the middle of a conversation he will suddenly do a little bended-knee jiggle while shifting from one leg to the other and yanking on the front of his pants.  (Nails on a chalkboard, people.  Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.)

The husband will reach down and get a look on his face like he's about to give birth, grab around for a second and then act like nothing happened.  (Yeah.  So sexy.)  I have inadvertently walked in on my father in law while he's hiding in the kitchen with his belt unbuckled adjusting himself.  (GAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!  MY EYES!!!!  MY EYESSSSS!!!)  

And yet?  I have never seen a woman (except for you, Miley Cyrus) seemingly as obsessed with clutching her vagina.  (And maybe Madonna.)

As I researched this subject, I came to the conclusion that baseball players and rock stars seem to have the most unruly members.  I mean, don't get me wrong:  Men in general cannot keep their hands off the front of their pants.  It's not news that the male species truly believes that the center of the universe is a giant penis and they are all worshiping at it's altar.  (They also share the rather humorous belief that women all worship at the same altar and that we spend as much time as they do thinking about peeners.  Newsflash:  We don't really care what's in your pants.  We are not impressed by your selfies of the size of your junk.  We do, however, laugh about it with our friends... and if you send one of my single girlfriends a picture of your package?  She will immediately forward it to me and the rest of her friends.  And we will laughhh and laughhhh and laughhhh...  Now you know.) 

So back to baseball players. 

I need to know why they do this.  Are they concerned that their balls will fly out of their pants and inadvertently get slammed into the outfield?  Are they going to roll down their pant leg and get stepped on by a cleated foot?  Will their balls make it to first before they do?  Or will they get clobbered by the catcher at home plate? 

I'm sorry, but I think the whole pine tar debacle that the Yankees are currently claiming such deep shock and embarrassment over pales in comparison to the severe crotch grabbing epidemic that seems to be plaguing the game.   What's more embarrassing, MLB?  A cheating player who is only being suspended because he was stupid enough to make it too obvious for officials to turn the other cheek?  Or an entire league with rowdy penises?  Peni.  Peeners?  Wenises.  Peens.  Whatever.  The thought of all those sports parts getting loose during a game is definitely a cause for concern.

HOWEVER!  In the deepest, darkest regions of cyber space I encountered the most unruly penis of all....

What would happen if he let go?  Would it run screaming off the stage and be hunted down by tweenagers and gay men?  Would it go back to Canada, where it belongs?  Is it even there?  For the love of GOD, Justin... DON'T LET GO!




 

Come and live in my brain...

Lawd I wish I could sleep!  Given the choice between sleep and almost anything else, I would choose sleep.  The thought of being able to fall asleep quickly, peacefully and easily makes me almost giddy with desire.  Having my brain actually shut. the fuck. UP. when I go to bed at night causes my eyes to mist up with longing and my arms ache to embrace the wooly curves of a fence-jumping sheep (but in a totally non-sexual way.  More like in a "Take me with you to Slumber Town" way).

Imagine, I say to myself, not thinking for 1 to 8 solid hours....

And then I have the same feeling I used to get as an annoyingly skeptical child when I would try to convince myself that a fat man in a red suit actually came down my chimney on Christmas Eve and left  unwrapped gifts under my tree...

Nope.  Not possible.  Pleasant to contemplate but it ain't happening.

(Except I never said "ain't."  Ever.  I'm pretty sure my mother would have shot me dead should the word "ain't" ever have dared to pass my lips.  Even as an adult when I'm being all ghetto and cool and shit I can't bring myself to say "ain't."  I write it... sometimes... and then I feel compelled to explain that I never actually say it, mostly because in my mind?  It would be like swearing in a house of worship.  Can't do it.  Would burn in Hell if I did.  Because my other sins pale in comparison to using a slang contraction of is and not.)

(FYI?  This is why I don't sleep at night.  I can't hold a single train of thought for longer than 8 seconds.  My brain would never win a bull riding contest because it couldn't hang on that long.)

Last night, as I was slowly climbing up the stairs to go to bed, I was soooooo tiiiiiiired that I couldn't keep my eyes open.  I dragged my exhausted body onto the bed and barely had the energy to pull up the covers.  I laid my weary head upon the pillow and BOINGGGG!   Wakefulness attacked me like a rabid dog. 

As if my mind had been planning it all day the theme song to Three's Company popped into my head. 

Just.... WHAT?  Where the hell did THAT come from?

Hello, Brain?  The 1970s want their theme song back. 

And Janet's hair.  And her clothes.

And Chrissy's short-shorts.

And Mrs. Roper's muu-muus.

Which led to an exhausting half hour trying to remember Janet's last name.  I had Jack Tripper, Chrissy Snow, Stanley and Helen Roper, Ralph Furley...

*crickets*

Janet WHAT? 

It. Was. Agonizing.

Come and knock on our dooooor...
We've been waiting for youuuuuu...
Where the kisses are HERS and HERS and HIS
Three's Company tooooooo!

*insert stupid 70's theme music*

*Author's note:  If you Google image search Three's Company, about half way down the page your eyes will suddenly be assaulted by a fairly graphic photo of a man with a rather large willy getting ready to lay some pipe on two very naked women.  FYI.  And if you're like me and sleep-addled, the first thing you will think is, "The fuck episode was that?"


What the hell was Janet's last name???  I was totally going to google it and then I got distracted by the porn.  Now I'm too tired to go back and check.  Crap.

Anyway.


So after the whole Three's Company debacle (not that the damn song ever left my brain... it just provided the background music for the remainder of the night) I thought I would try meditation.  You know, clearing my mind, thinking of nothing, just breathing and being.

Here's what happens when I breathe and be:

I become hyper-focused on my breathing.

Then I become dizzy and woozy because I hyper-ventilate.

Then I decide I'm having a heart attack.

Or a brain tumor.

Or both.

All to the tune of Three's Company.


GAHHHHHHH!


I know!  I'll make lists in my head!  I hate lists!  Lists bore me stupid!  I'll bore myself so badly with list making that I will stop thinking and I will fall asleep!!!!

Bloody brilliant idea, old chap!

Great.  Now I'm thinking in a British accent.

Groceries!  I hate grocery shopping!!!  What do I need?

Milk
Dates
Pecans
Sweet potatoes
Boca crumbles
Honey

One potato, two potato, three potato, four...
Five banana six banana seven banana more...

Do I need bananas?  Meh... I'm over bananas. 

Three's Company tooo!

Toilet paper?  You can never have too much toilet paper.
Dog food
Shit.  There was something else...
VODKA.  I need VODKA.
Tonic water
Oooh!  Cinco de Mayo!  Tequila!

What the hell is the date today?  Or is it already tomorrow?  What time is it?

Crap.

There's a lovable SPACE that NEEDS your FACE
Three's Company toooooo!

Should I just get up already and go downstairs?  I've been in bed for four hours and all I've accomplished is remembering all the words to that damn song.

What the FUCK was Janet's last name?

I hated those girls who replaced Chrissy.  And what was up with that girl they hired to play Jack's wife or fiancé or whatever?

Is Don Knotts dead?

Is Gomer still alive?

What was so funny about that friggin' hillbilly family they always had on the Andy Griffith show with the mute brothers and the horny girl who had the hots for Andy?  And that little annoying guy, Ernest T?  Why was he even there?  Why didn't Andy just shoot him already?

People in the 60s were wayyyyy too easily entertained.

Or was it the 50s?

The Darlings.  That was their name.

What is up with all those redneck shows on the Discovery channel lately?  It's like rednecks are the new Jersey in so-called reality television. 

Naked And Afraid... bwaaaaahahahahaaaaa!  I keep forgetting to watch that.  Where do they poop? 


Come and dance on our flooooor....
Try a step that is newwwww....


Lame.

I hate it when men have perfectly plucked and shaped eyebrows.  I don't care HOW gay you are, it looks ridiculous.  Don't do it.  Unless your goal is to look like a drag queen, in which case?  Rock on. 

I wish I had their eyebrows.

Even if I fall asleep right this second I will only get 2 1/2 hours of sleep.

Wait... did I just fall asleep?

*long pause*

Nope.

And then I do that thing where I wonder what it'll be like to die.

And then I think, "At least I'll get some friggin' rest."