It's Hell Gettin' Old
Long gone are the days when I wished I looked older so my patients would take me more seriously. Even in private practice, my baby face (with it's occasional zit) made it hard for my patients to call me "doctor" instead of "Sugar pie" or "Sweetie." (Okay, so I didn't mind.) But the years, they just kept a comin, along with my greying hair and saggin wrinkles. First, you look in the mirror and wonder, "Christ, who's that old lady staring back at me." You're in real trouble when you reflexively say, "Hi Mom" to your reflection. Even worse, as in my case, when you say, "Hi, Dad." You see the fine lines around your eyes and lips. Your eyelids begin to droop. The bags under your eyes look like their packed for a long weekend in the Hill Country. And your jowls start to sag below your jaw line like two bushels of peas. Your but looks like two hogs fighting in a gunney sack when you walk. Of course there's that awkward not-young-anymore-but not-ancient-either phase that precedes the "old as Methusala" one. For me, it was that age purgatory when I had to pick up my prenatal vitamens and my Grecian Formula from the drugstore at the same time. Now, I'm flagrantly older. There's no doubt. Guys don't look at me with that special look that flattered and annoyed at the same time. Worse yet, I look at the hotties thinking "Aw, what a cutie. I bet his Mommy is so proud" instead of thinking "What an ass on that hunk!" Now, it's not about fighting wrinkles with moisterizer; it's about covering them with spackling compound or Bondo. The only think that has persevered from my youth is that annoying occasional zit. I've lost all hope of getting rid of them. Now, it's not whether I'll be able to cover it up for the prom; it's whether I'll carry them to my grave, giving the mortuary cosmotologist the challenge of a lifetime. Yep, it's hell getting old. Wait a minute. Did I already mention that?