About a month ago, a friend of mine was talking about Tumblr, and how all the kids use it. She referred to it as the new thing (Instagram is soooo January). Not wanting to feel old, I immediately went to Tumblr and created a page. Excited and inspired, I was planning to move my blog to Tumblr and use it as a one-stop shop for photos, tweets, blog posts, etc. Then I spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to format my page and upload a profile picture. Eventually I was googling, “Tumblr for dummies”.
OK, fine. Tumblr is for the kids. I will keep plugging along on my old-school wordpress blog.
Nothing makes me feel older than following my nieces on Instagram. They’re teenagers so by default they have hundreds of followers. They mostly post selfies, and they are almost always posed with puckered lips. Their photos get a minimum of 70 likes, and the comments range from “Swaggy” to “ily and yo face”.
I used to feel completely comfortable commenting on their photos because I’m like, the cool aunt. But as I approach my 40th birthday, a sad reality is hitting me – not only am I probably not considered anywhere near cool to a gaggle of 13-year olds, I am not swaggy.
I am saggy.
In the span of 3 years I went from marathon-running, tequila-drinking, fresh-faced 30-something to the person who discusses her pension with her husband.
I CAN NOT BE THE PERSON TALKING ABOUT MY PENSION.
I should be talking about how hungover I am and how rad (that is a vintage word, and I am bringing it back) last night’s episode of Alias was.
But the proof is everywhere. A quick scroll of my Facebook photos tells the whole story: partying, partying, running, partying, engagement photo, bachelorette party, wedding, honeymoon, partying, ultrasound picture, babies.
A quick glance in the mirror really tells the story. Um, is it me, or am I two bra sizes smaller now that I have two children? Is it me, or do I still look 3 months pregnant? Why am I not tan like I was in 2009? Is it me, or do I look 39 and not 29? When did this happen?
So, about a month ago – right around the time when I accepted defeat to Tumblr – I suggested to Laef that we join the Y. My logic was simple: they offer free child care while you work out if you have a membership. Laef being Laef needed time to process this request. Questions of more money going out of the household are filed with questions of “when are you going to clean the litter box?”. They usually take 3-6 weeks (Sorry, Sanch) to garner a response.
After looking in the mirror for an extended amount of time today, I settled on a new solution.
Me: “I want to get a boob job.”
Me: “Not bigger. Just. Less saggy. And maybe something with the nipples. I have no idea what is going on there.”
Me: “I want to be cute. For you.”
Laef: “You should join the Y.”
Me: “Really?!!! Yay.”
(I totally did not plan this, but it is filed away for future reference).