Not wanting to use the word “aging.”
The way makeup now reacts to the skin above your mouth, and gets all dry and crackly.
How you used to think this was so bizarre when you were looking at someone, until you realized, just now, that it’s because when those people were putting on their makeup they really couldn’t see that they looked like they had diaper rash on their upper lip.
Looking at food through reading glasses and thinking you’re going to throw up because it’s just so BIG.
Becoming the person about whom they say, “She looks good. In clothes.”
Forgetting whom you were talking to when you wanted to recommend Katy Butler’s New York Times piece about her aging mother. Or father. Whoever.
Paying attention to spell check when it tells you to use whom instead of who. Then thinking that you really should write “to whom you were talking,” instead.
Listening to Dolores Park explode in ironic cheering when the Rapture came and went, and wishing all those Pabst-drinking, skinny-jean-wearing, fixie-riding youngsters would get sucked out of your crotchety old life.
Having trouble pulling weeds because of tennis elbow.
Wanting to pull weeds.
Remembering fondly the last time you got cat-called, even though it was an 80-year-old homeless guy outside of Discount Lumber.
Having these new weird reading glasses scattered around the house like Tribbles.
