I’m another year older. It’s not like 38 is a milestone birthday or some societal harbinger of doom, but I wasn’t looking forward to this birthday. Now that it’s passed… I’m still not too thrilled about it. Every year I think, “Hey, you’re only as old as you feel and half the time I still have to call my dad to ask him how to do something. That makes me young, right?” Right?
This year, I’m feeling my age. Maybe it’s why 38 hasn’t wowed me so far. You would think that the under 40 crowd wouldn’t have arthritis aches and pains, bodily shit getting out of whack if you barely exert yourself beyond your normal limits, or, *gasp* hormonal craziness making you feel like menopause is breathing down your neck. Nothing makes a gal feel like she’s old as much as the thought of menopause on the horizon. I thought I was cool with the reality that my childbearing days are behind me, but today it kind of hit me for some reason. I’m not going to have any more children. Not because I don’t want to, but because I physically can’t. And whether that reason is because of my age or for no logical reason at all, it makes me feel old and even a little unfeminine. It makes no sense; I realize that. I don’t want to start all over again with sleepless nights and diaper changes, but the fact that my body made the choice to stop at two makes me feel defective somehow, like my body is breaking down and everything that makes me a woman is shriveling up and dying.
Thirty-eight is too young for this. I mean, I still have 29 years until I hit retirement age. In my head, I should be pain free and physically perfect. I should be like Michelle Duggar, spitting out kids into my 40s and never raising my voice or complaining about anything. Okay, back up. I lost my mind for a minute there. There’s no way I can go through life without raising my voice. Let me shout it out then, a sort of therapy if you will: I thirty-hate thirty-eight! I’m young dammit!