I was talking to an old friend recently about my desire to get fit again and he told me that if I really wanted to exercise or get fit–if it was “really [as in actually] important” to me–I would make the time for it. My reply (which most parents will understand) was that if I get down on the floor and try to do a sit-up, my children attack me. To which he responded that when his DOG does that he just pushes him off.
Because, clearly, children are just like dogs. Clearly. Just. Like. Dogs.
Oh, no he didn’t!
Obviously, if we hadn’t been on the phone I would have punched him in the face. You know what? Even after we hung up the phone I wanted to punch him in the face. Even now as I’m thinking about it, I want to punch him in the face. I tried to assert myself–I mean, I do actually know what it’s like to have children around all the time; I was the person of knowledge within this particular discussion. However, since we were on the phone, I did what I normally do when faced with a confrontation: I mumbled something incoherent, felt like I was going to vomit, and then thought about it for about 16.2 hours.
And then, two days ago, I decided to make time for it and try out a Pilates video, since my abdominals look like melted wax, which I can assure you is not hot. For a solid 18 minutes I had the floor to myself, and then Luca came in and guess what. Yes, he attacked me. First he sat on my head, which immediately alerted me to his need for a diaper change, and then he started telling a story, very loudly so I couldn’t hear the instructors. And dude! Pilates is hard! You absolutely need instruction, otherwise it just looks like they are trying to fly. I asked Luca nicely to give me some time to finish my video (Good God man! Can’t you just give me a minute!) and he started yelling at me. So, since I am a mature adult, I yelled at him to stop yelling.
It amazes me that I am in my thirties. I have no trouble with the fact that I am getting older. Well, I am sort of pissed that no one cards me anymore, because that just seems like a common courtesy. And the fact that, apparently, when I get sick, no amount of EmergenC seems to do anything but make me pee more. But really, the concept of aging ought to be a no-brainer. I mean, it happens as time passes, right? Why do people get so surprised by age? It’s like they missed the most basic science class. What I do have a problem with is the shock of seeing my face in the mirror every morning. No one over the age of 35 should look at themselves directly in the mirror in the morning. Ever. Another roadblock in the way of my path to absolute self love? My abdomen. Really. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s still so shocking to me! It either looks like something you could draw a face on and make talk or it looks sad and deflated. And yes, muffiny. Maybe I could market it as a puppet for parties.
Here’s a tip. I suggest you never ask a four-year-old how old they think you are. Four-year-olds don’t get flattery. Rowan literally said to me when I asked him how old he thought I was, “I don’t know . . . um . . . maybe, um . . . 112?”.
So it isn’t that I’m getting older, it’s that I am older. I’m sure that I will feel this way even once I am a senior citizen, the idea of which is just insane. Someday I am going to be incontinent. Insane! One of my great consolations for having to have a C-section with Rowan is the fact that my vagina wasn’t stretched to India and back and that I don’t pee when I sneeze. Because a lot of women pee when they sneeze. Seriously. (I remember as I was being wheeled into surgery that I actually felt a teensy bit of relief within the devastation. A flash of a memory came to me as they were administering the epidural, of a friend [months after having her first child] sneezing and saying “oh, shit!” as she ran to the bathroom.) But alas, eventually my vagina will become what every woman’s on the planet becomes: disgusting. Wait. Did I just sort of cross a line there? It’s true though: there will come a day for each of us when we will be so old that someone else will have to wipe us.
Maybe I should dedicate a post to vaginas. Rowan could advise me.
What bothers me currently is that I am old enough to have things growing on my body. I have actually had to have things removed. From my face. Because they grew there. I grossed my own self out! When I went to the dermatologist for the, um, removal, I actually was sort of freaking out to the doctor about it. I kept saying, “I mean, really? Things can, like, grow on you? This is a thing that happens? I’m disgusting! How did this happen all of a sudden?” and she just nodded and smiled a little. But she didn’t really comfort me because, as it dawned on me later, after my giant ego went down for a nap that, she removes CANCER from people who might DIE. She probably wanted to tell me and my tiny little blemish to fuck off. But she didn’t. You know why? Because she’s mature and dignified.
Then there’s me. Older and muffiny? Yes. Mature and dignified? I think not.