45 and Counting

Today I turn 45 years old.  I am now mature. No more potty talk, no more pranks, no more dancing naked on the porch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                               Me at 5                                                                                                                            Me at 45

Much cuter at 5 than 45. But, same long finger toes and same book!

45 is only a milestone because I move into a new age group when racing. Up until two years ago I would not have even known what it meant to “move into another age group.” Now it gets me all giddy. Running/racing nerd for sure.

We have lots of ages. How old we are chronologically. How old we are cognitively. How old we are emotionally. And, how old we feel. Oh, then there’s that age they give you on the Biggest Loser, but I don’t have Dr. H here to tell me that I am actually 95 inside my body.

I think I’m 45 in every way except how I “feel.”  Some would even (and have even) said I’m in about the fifth grade with how much I enjoy talking about farts. Hell, I just enjoy farting, period. I think it’s one of the joys of life. Don’t even get me started on sharts and other goodies like that.

Getting older is not sexy or glamorous, but it’s pretty funny. Weird shit goes down in your body and mind. If you can’t laugh, what can you do besides cry or call Dr. Kevorkian? (Although I did hear he died doing what he loved the most – dying! Ba da boom!).

Here’s what I’ve noticed about getting older:

• I’m in a new age group (did I already say that?). In Boulder the 45-49 vagina age group is kick ass and bad ass and brutal. I’m glad to join these ladies just so they can massacre me at every race. They give me a standard to look up to.
• My eyebrows are thinning and balding in places! I’ve never cared about my brows, but they are ridiculous. Being pretty low maintenance in regards to my hairs, I hate to admit it’s time for routine shaping and waxing. My “below” region might be next. My Betty is ready!
• I care much less what people think. As I get older, I’m starting to shed the need to impress or entertain people. I’ve never had a very thick skin, but it is growing layers by the day. As I move into realizing that I am quite mortal and really will die someday, I am less and less concerned about what people think and more and more concerned about living my life the way I want to live it.
• My friend’s parents are getting sick and dying. Not much to say about this one except that we are next in line.
• My children are old. What the hell? I never, ever thought my son would be taller than me and kick my ass in pull ups (not hard to do, I assure you), or that my daughter and I would be discussing what it is like to have a period. You might not think your kids will ever get there, but they will, and it will be before you know it.
• My body hurts. It aches when I get out of bed in the morning. I have to stretch, take Motrin and use heating pads. Bring on the Vicks Vapor Rub and the “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” button in the shower.

This year, I’m wishing for the norm: to drink more water, to become more enlightened, to train/race without severe pain and/or injury and to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  Piece of cake.

Speaking of cake, I’m taking charge today and going to Costco to get my cake. My mom made me an amazing home-made lemon cake on Sunday, but today I’m going for store-bought red velvet with cream cheese icing. Other stuff on tap for today? Free birthday car wash (show your ID and voila!). I’m living large!

SUAR