getting older

Would you really rather not get older?

Sitting now on the cusp of my 35th birthday, I find myself taking stock of my life thus far, shoving my youth under a microscope while I ask myself this one thing: Am I careening full-tilt toward my final days on this earth, or am I only just getting started here?

To be honest, I consider myself pretty damn good at adulting. I’m a great cook, as long as I have a recipe. I’m a self-taught professional baker.

Certainly, physical changes are imminent. A rational brain knows this. It all started with chin hairs. I awoke one day and my single, adorable chin hair I’ve had since college multiplied like gremlins. I look like a billygoat. Have you any idea the amount of time I spend a week on chin hair maintenance? Every time my husband walks into the bathroom, I am sitting propped on the counter, magnifying mirror in one hand and tweezers in the other. Or as we like to call it: foreplay.

In our youth-obsessed society, the elderly are nearly invisible, hovering near the edges of existence.