I can tell I’m getting older.
- We can’t sleep in on the weekends (and hey, we usually hit midnight). Lately, Slow Boy gets up extra early to do his house “experiments”; I run with the girls no later than 9am, and that’s pushing it.
- We talk about the weather. Even in rocking chairs.
- I realize my elders were right and I want to offer the same advice to the younger crowd. I’m not too old to remember that I hated it.
- I no longer find our former vodka and pickle parties, which were too fun that we had multiples ones despite the damaging post-day, appealing simply because there’s too much to do on the weekend.
- By “do”, I mean: gardening, house work, outdoor fun, voluntary plumbing (by Slow Boy), redecorating (yeah, that’s me), cooking elaborate meals — you know, hot stuff.
- I do go out — the dragon boat team is reliable in that way. But last weekend I only lasted until the second bar, after which I “had” to go home to the dog.
- I use moisturizer daily and wear sunscreen.
- Our house plays scrabble. At least it’s speed scrabble, so we still have our reflexes.
- Our friends have entered the baby frontier, which means this weekend, we’re having them over at 5pm for dinner. Midnight snack, anyone?
- And finally, Slow Boy put it perfectly the other day: The worst part about getting old is that you don’t mind.
This makes us laugh because it’s so true! We are enjoying life, even if it’s becoming like that of happy, old folk. This attitude is very different from when the wild and young Slow Boy was certain he’d “never get old!”
I turn the big 3-0 this year, and I’m excited: it’s makes for an even better reason to celebrate my birthday. You bet I’ll have a party! In fact, it’ll probably start at 5pm, go as late as the younger crowd can carry me on, and after that, they can hit the bars.