Jess On Getting Older

img_3510It’s not even all bad. I’ve always been a slow learner, so the number of things that have clicked in to place in the last few years has been like watching a “Best of” on the Discovery Channel, Science Channel and History Channel all at the same time. Most people understand this shit much earlier in their lives, but for me it’s been like the Super Bowl of “OOOOOH” (with an extremely long O and dawning comprehension that would make the girls on Clueless look smart.).

Anyway, my whole life I’ve picked up things about getting old, ya know, like ya do.  Among these are/were: finding that first piece of gray hair, getting a grown up job, owning a home and having a family. Then as you get older your body starts to break a little bit: back pain, foot pain, gut pain, what-have-you.  For me my first fall apart moment was a kidney stone resulting in surgery followed closely by plantar fasciitis.

To continue, the change of taste:  taste in food, taste in clothes, taste in music (taste in whether or not the direct ink injection system in your body will prove to be a regret). I even know a woman whose eyes changed color after the births of two of her children.). Lots of change in tastes.  I haven’t experienced that a whole lot, although part of that has to do with Jess’s Mess:  I like what I like and if you don’t like it don’t do it. Poor Bear and Ash. Although I do make more of an effort to be adventurous than I did in my younger years.

Anyway.  I am 40, not exactly old. But as I grow older, enjoying the extremely loud “click!” of each new thing I come to understand and hating each new body part that shrivels up and falls off, what I’ve noticed the most about “Getting Old” is the number of doctors it takes to maintain all my parts. To me, that’s when you know shit is real.

So should you be questioning whether or not you’re “Getting Old,” look not for gray hair or bones that crack so loud in the middle of the night that you literally wake a family member every time you pee. Simply count the number of doctor appointments and doctors it is taking to maintain you.  (Hint: if you say you don’t really have a doctor, but that you went to the dentist last year and you see your gyno every year for an updated birth control scrip, then you are not “Getting Old” and also I sort of hate you. You can’t be in my club.  If, on the other hand, you’ve lost some body parts, are held together with medication like an old shitty car is with duct tape, have food that makes you sick but you can’t not eat it, and toddlers tend to irritate you if left alone with one for too long then come sit next to me. We’ll have jackets made.)

Ps. That was a super long parenthetical. Maybe the longest ever.

Pps. I’m not really sure on the jacket thing either. Like it sounds awesome in concept but will my brain meats allow it? It’s not from Torrid or Dillard’s or Target, which seem to be the only stores I shop at anymore. (Holy shit I just realized that is totally true. Aww and here I am chained to my bed with my surgery holes healing and missing my mall.)  Anyway, I ran a little off topic for a minute and Abe wasn’t here to keep me focused. (And pain pills do not help, holy balls). Continuing, if I ever get skinny again (or, you know, my version of skinny- I’ve been pretty fluffy my entire life) the only non Torrid, Dillards or Target jacket I’ll be wearing is my Pink Lady coat. Because fuck yes I have one.

Ppps. Did you ever doubt that I had a Pink Lady coat? I just can’t wear it nowadays cause it’s not so much Pink Lady Coat as it is Fat Guy in a Little Coat. (Also if you’ve never seen Tommy Boy you are again disinvited from my “Getting Older” and possibly jacket-less club.

Ppps. This is the most post scrips I think I’ve ever used. Add that to my run on sentence slash longest parenthetical ever and I’d say we have some sort of record here.   I’m not saying I should get an award, like a ribbon or a plaque or something. But I’m not saying I shouldn’t.


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