Ironing out the wrinkles

I know that aging is inevitable and infinitely preferable to the alternative, but when did I get so old? It’s as if an alien has invaded my body and I don’t like it.

This morning, after painfully rolling myself out of bed, taking an Advil for my back and head pain, and slathering moisturizer on my formerly oily face, I got in the car to head to work. On the way, I was looking in the mirror at a stoplight (hey… I’m old, but vain) and noticed craters in my forehead. When did that happen? Jimmy Buffett once said, “Wrinkles only go where smiles have been,” but I doubt my forehead’s had much to grin about. Man, I’m tempted to call Dr. Beverly Hills Plastic Surgery and schedule some botox. Maybe they can suck the fat out of my rear end or thighs and fill the crevices in my face.

It’s very disturbing when you realize you’re getting old. My friend Joe and I were talking on Monday night about how we’ve stopped trying to be fashionable and have started buying clothes because they’re comfortable and stretchy.

Now I know why your eyesight goes as you age… so you can’t see how haggard you look. If I feel this old at 35, how am I going to feel in 20 years?

35’s not hold, right? I mean, my uncle’s mother was celebrating her 20th wedding anniversary when she was my age, but that’s unusual.

Guess it’s true what they say… getting old ain’t for sissies.