The Early-Mid-40s

Holla! Tomorrow is my first day in my early-mid-40s.

I have this system, see: When you turn, say 40, you're 40. Then 41-43 is the early 40s, 44-46 is the mid-40s, and 47-49 is the late 40s. 41 is the early-early-40s, 42 is the mid-early-40s, 43 is the late-early-40s, and so on. Anyhoo. Now you know.

I'm in my early-mid-40s.

I'm hitting the middle of the decade of official Middle Age.

And stuff is changing, man.

Old folks say things all of the time. Stuff like, "I still feel like a teenager inside; it's only when I see myself in the mirror that I realize..." And you think, "Sure you do, oldie." It just doesn't sink in. Until it does.

There have been several things I've noticed over the past few weeks and months that have really sneaked up on me (yes, that's grammatically correct), and it's shocking how freaking typical I am in this whole thing. I don't love being "average." Yet here I am.

In no particular order:

#1) Number One. This is likely a mixture of age and having recently had a kid. Gosh, I hope. Anyway, the thing is this: I have to sneak to the restroom without letting my body know that's where I'm headed. I can't even think, "Oh, good! It looks like I have a moment to go to the --- WHOOPS! NO! NOT NOW!!" Seriously. My eyeballs register the outside of a stall door and before I've even reached out to open it, it's like, "Release the Kraken!" Good gravy, Mabel! We still have a good six or seven seconds before it will be safe! So I can't share this information with my body, really; unfortunately, I don't know how to get my brain to cooperate with me on this one.

#2) Close-in Vision. I've been myopic enough to require corrective lenses since 1977 (which was 2nd grade, for those of you who, like I, hate unnecessary maths). This has rarely been a blast, especially as a small child and awkward teen, when glasses were either strictly utilitarian or just purposefully ugly. That's the only thing that makes sense.

However, my close-in vision has always been incredible. Without my contacts in, I can read the microprint on checks. I can read tiny print on anything, including pictures of stuff. And as long as my vision is uncorrected, I can still do this. However, if I'm trying to read anything smaller than regular book print, it's becoming more difficult to do so in less than perfect light, or with writing on a less-than-strictly-contrasting-colored background. It's frustrating because I could read this stuff with my contacts in/glasses on like FOUR SHORT MONTHS AGO. So what the heck?

James said it's because our lenses thicken as we age, rendering us less able to focus with the acuity we once had. I'm sure he's right, but that's just plain dumb. I exercise my eyes. They should repay me by staying fit. Jerks.

#3) Post-Baby Spread. I am not sure how much of this is strictly age and how much has to do with that plus having a baby. I'm going to blame it all on my little kid, because it's not a deal-breaker, and it makes me feel like less of a senior citizen to think I had some help.

Anyway, after I had Daphne, I just gained a bunch of weight and was generally fat. Then I lost the weight. That makes it all sound a lot simpler than it was. There was drama, there was work. Sure, all of that. But my weight gain was all-around and my weight loss took a bit of time and discipline, but it happened within less than a year of my deciding to fix things.

With Mal, my body is actually changing. The distribution is not typical for my body, and I don't know how to handle it.

First, I've never been very busty, and this nursing thing is keeping me plenty filled in up top. Next, apparently breastfeeding melts gluteal fat, so my posterior, in addition to getting a lot of use during frequent floor play and nursing sessions, is actually flatter because some of the fat is outta there. So that's weird. Mom butt. And THEN there's the tone I lost (YES, I HAD SOME) during the pregnancy, what with the stretching of the belly area, and its shrinking back down. There is also some left-over layering that is still there and I've read doesn't want to go away as long as I'm still nursing. I PROMISE YOU, BODY, I'M NOT IN DANGER OF STARVING.

Le sigh.

With this stuff, though, I know it's just a matter of making good choices and waiting it out. I have zero desire to do sit-ups or go to the gym at all. I love walking with my people, and I'll love riding my bike again once we get into a neighborhood where that's feasible... and I replace my stolen bike (grumble grumble grumble).

Still, it's weird not to know your body. It's expected during pregnancy, but now...

#4) The Sweating. PEOPLE. I have never been a big sweater. Austin is certainly hot and muggy, but even the first summer we were here wasn't that bad. Now, I sweat most of the time. I don't necessarily feel overly-warm. But my face is almost always shiny (and we'll get to the face thing in a minute), and especially when I get super stressed (which is several times daily due to my precious little boy), I find the flop sweat to be present in rather alarming quantities.

Also, the area under my eyes... sweats. A friend teased me about whether I had eye bags so this was the facial equivalent of under-boob sweat. It's not. And it seems to be "a thing." Seriously. I just Googled it. Don't, by the way. The recommendations are ridiculous. I don't use regular antiperspirant. Why would I use under-eye antiperspirant?

If it's this bad now, I shudder to think about the lake of steam I'm going to be when I actually start having hot flashes.

#5) My Complexion. Oh, goodness, this one hurts the baddest of all. My skin has always been pretty dang fabulous, and it's something I mostly took for granted except when I was in high school and realized I was fortunate only to have a few major zits rather than constant full-facial flare-ups. Even now, I'll get the cycle-related blemish every now and then, so that's not a huge problem. But, heaven help me, the discoloring! My skin isn't the same uniform color anymore. Some of the skin on my left cheek is, well, I guess there's nothing to call it but a giant age spot.

This is to say nothing of the status of my pores, of random facial hairs, and of the colorless permanent bumps that are cropping up across my forehead. Oh, and did I mention that many of my freckles are becoming three-dimensional? Yeah. Skin tags. Never had those before. Mal appreciates these, though. They give him something to play with when nursing. He's actually excised one of them and is working on two other ones. And, yes, it hurts like the Dickens.

#6) My Flexibility. I always swore that I'd be able to do a cartwheel and the splits forever. And I could. Until my ruptured disc. I can still cartwheel (though I get more dizzy now than I enjoy) and can mostly do the splits. I am working on those, trying to get a full split complete with my laying down flat on the floor, which I could do until four years ago. I blame this on my injury, and a lot of my loss of flexibility is due to this, but I didn't injure my back ever until I was just a couple of weeks shy of my 40th birthday, so this, too, is probably age-related.

I can get some of this back, but some is permanently gone. For example, I can bend over and touch my right toes without bending my right knee. I cannot do this with my left leg; the injury and sciatica messed that stuff up forever. So it's official: I'm past my prime, people.

#7) The Upside. I'm writing this blog post. Do you know how self-conscious I might have been about all of this stuff in the past? Do you know how little I wanted to expose any vulnerability?

Also, this stuff? It doesn't make me feel worthless or "less" anything. It's just reality. And I think that sort of emotional maturity is worth the price of admission.

Last week, my mom took a picture of me that I absolutely hated. She posted it on Facebook. At one time, I might have been tempted to ask her to take it down. I wasn't. I have too little time left to worry about petty crap like that.

Back to what the "old people" say: I have asked around recently, just to see how many of my contemporaries feel like they're actually truly responsible adults maneuvering through their lives, and most of them agree that they don't. I feel most like a grown-up when I'm actively parenting. Otherwise, I sincerely feel like a 16-year-old kid driving around town, just wanting to be happy and hang out with the people I love, and hoping not to do anything too stupid.

What's the cut-off age for stupid kiddy hairstyles?