Last night at yoga I realized that I am getting old. Well, yeah, we’re all getting older all the time, but I have lived in this little fantasy bubble of mine where I think – despite being married for ten years and having carried and borne three kids – that I’m still in my twenties and have this cute, tight little body (please ignore the slightly stretched out, flabby belly and shrunken boobs), and can totally hang with the likes of Kristen Stewart, Emma Stone, and Mila Kunis.
Yeah, right.
Last night it hit home that I am so beyond all that.
Over the past couple of weeks I started to notice that I was getting a little bit of a spare tire. I know! I do yoga and Pilates as well as cardio every week. Okay, maybe I’m sneaking one too many chocolate covered almonds, or scarfing pretzels and chips (and Trader Joe’s dark chocolate pistachio toffee) too often, too late at night. But still, isn’t that why I’m working out? So I can eat those things whenever I want?
And then, last night while doing a pose during yoga, I held my arm out and looked at my hand. Really looked at my hand. And I noticed that my hand no longer looks like the hand of a twenty something. No, it looks like the hand of a middle-aged woman. I guess it’s a good thing that I was in a yoga-induced calm when I realized this, because just typing “middle-aged woman” gave me palpitations. Me. Middle aged? No. That’s just preposterous! It’s impossible! It just. cannot. be.
Except it is.
Let’s face it. I’m forty. I am going to be forty-one in a month. Those little starlets who I like to pretend I could hang with? I could be their mothers, for God’s sake! (I also could have starred on Teen Mom when they were babies, but that’s another topic altogether)
No, given the chance, I will never turn Rob Pattinson’s head. *le sigh* And to be honest, even if the impossible actually became possible and I found myself, erm, in a position to get intimate with the twenty-five year old Hollywood hottie, I would be so freaking neurotic that he would be horrified by the changes that motherhood have bestowed upon my body. TMI alert, kinda – while I am proud to say that I can still fit into size 6/8 jeans, carrying three babies to term has not only left my belly soft and mushy despite the weekly Pilates classes, it has also, um, affected my other less visible lady parts.
I can’t stop the forward march of time. I can’t magically make myself forever twenty-five. At times (like at yoga this week), it totally sucks. But I remind myself that everyone else is getting older, too, so while that’s not ideal, it certainly lessens the sting.
As does $10 and a box of permanent hair color.
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