Turning 35: And Other Tales of Gruesome Terror

Okay, maybe I'm being melodramatic. But then again, if I wasn't, then I wouldn't be me, right?

*insert theme music from 2001: A Space Odyssey*

So, I sit...drink my bottled water (makes a great chaser for all the valium I need to handle this one), listen to John Coltrane, and try to make sense of what a complete moron I've been today - the past few days, actually; and try to take friend's advice: after all, it is only a birthday, another year.



As my pal J.S. calmly said to me the other day as I lamented that soon I would be needing a forklift for my breasts and my AARP card, "You either have a birthday, or you die."

I think, dear reader, I'd rather have the birthday when it's put in those terms.

I then protested about all the things that I haven't accomplished and she said, "Well, the grass is always greener when you're not getting ass-fucked on your lawn."

True.
I mean, just because someone else my age has a husband, kids, house, career gig, and lots of money - does not mean that they are happier or have accomplished more. It means they did once what I've done twice; their rubbers were cheaper quality; they've got issues with tight spaces; they have a helluva lot of stress; and they have lots of money (I couldn't find something bad to say about that).



So, I'm in a cab on the way to one of my doctor appointments today, and I'm a wreck. It occurs to me that I'm pre-mensing AND I'm turning 35 tomorrow with a Peter Pan complex (is that a real DSM thing? It should be. I'll be the poster girl) AND since I'm already feeling like I'm cracking up, it has a surreal quality where you're like Oh god - how can it get any worse?...and the radio is on.
Suddenly, a commercial comes on for a new skin cream, Hydroxytone. They're doing the whole pitch, and suddenly I'm thinking it sounds good; sure, get rid of some of those "fine lines" that ain't so fine. Then in the middle of the commercial, a male voice comes on and says, I shit you not, "I used to think she looked good, but now she looks so YOUNG!"

Thankfully, the doctor I was going to see was my shrink, where I could finish sobbing in the privacy of her office.



However, my second appointment found me in another cab (it was just a cab day, what can I say) and the driver, a man named Gregory, was a sweetheart. He asked me how I was doing, and I rubbed my eyes, which were puffy from all of my boo-hooing, and replied, "Not so hot. I'm turning 35 tomorrow and I'm not handling it well at all. I'm a wreck." Fresh tears sprung from my eyes and I sobbed.
He stared at me with a fascination that one saves for tragic car accidents: you don't want to look, but you just have to.

"Honey, you're fine. You're a sexy woman with smooth skin. 35 is nothing...take it from me, girl."

He then proceeded to give me a pep talk for a large part of the trip: talking to me about health, eating habits, drinking water, feeling good about myself, feeling sexy. He turned around in the car as we pulled up to the destination, took my hand, and told me to feel good about myself and not worry about my age. He got out of the car, opened the door for me and I gave him a hug. Then he drove off.

That was awesome therapy in itself. My thank-you goes out to Gregory the Cab Driver for being such a darling. It was a win-win situation for both of us; his free therapy session prevented me from needing tear duct surgery from crying too much or getting blood in his car from performing harakiri in the back seat. It worked out great.



I remember when J.S. turned 32 (she is 6 months older than me) and we were bitching about getting older, and she said, "Well, shit, 32 isn't so bad...S. is turning 35!!"

Ah.
I think once I get in a better head space about my life, and feel more comfortable where I'm at, then numbers won't be that big of an issue...just an extra candle to throw at a friend at my party.