35 going on senile

I was talking to my 6-year-old daughter about which medical schools she would like to apply to when she’s older, omg not really we were talking about sidewalk chalk but a mom can dream, when she suddenly paused and asked: “What are all those stripes on your forehead?” I swear that 35 years of not moisturizing and smothering my face with SPF just bitched slapped me, because those stripes she was talking about are the wrinkles that are adorning my forehead. Nicole Kidman would SO not approve.

"You're right. I would SO not approve."

Stop judging me Nicole Kidman!

Up until now, my daughters had only noticed the “beautiful freckles” on my face, and by freckles I mean sun spots.

My freckled face as seen by my super talented daughter.

My freckled face as seen by my super talented daughter.

Never in my life have I worried about the obvious fact that I am getting older; not when I turned 18 – OMG like I’m totally old; or when I turned 25 – what’s a quarter of a century anyway?; or when I turned 30 – 30’s is the new 20’s that’s my motto. But 36 is creeping up on me and I’m NOT all too happy about it. The only comfort I get is that the people I hang out with are 3 and 6 years old (seriously, I need grown up friends), and really, the age perception of kids is a beautiful thing, specially when they think I’m 25 and trust me, I’m NOT about to correct them.

I am convinced that I’m aging at supersonic speed, all within 6 months, last time I checked I was not celebrating my 35th birthday, now in a few months I’ll be 36 which rounded to the nearest tenth is 40 which practically makes me a middle-aged woman, and no, I’m not ready to start antiquing. My gray hairs are growing like weeds, not only do I see a new one every day, but they have completely invaded my head and I can’t keep up with the tweezing. And because of the constant tweezing I now think I have carpal tunnel and in need of urgent surgery.  I had 3 slices of pizza the other day and my stomach got so swollen the thought that I was pregnant and probably about to give birth in the bathtub even crossed my mind. “You need to stop eating like a college student” says my husband, of course he does, because he cooks like the Culinary Gods and I cook like a 5-year-old and if it were up to me I would live on Ramen Noodles. So basically, eating my daughter’s leftovers and complementing them with Oreos isn’t going to cut it anymore because my old, old digestive system can’t handle it. I also sometimes have this for lunch:

vending machine

Skittles count as fruit right?

Besides the fact that my body is probably a geriatric one, the other day I was trying to open my front door with the car keys, I even pressed the panic button to see if the door would just swing opened. It didn’t. I call my daughter 18 different names before she says “you know my name is Antonella, YOU named me.” Alzheimer is it you knocking?? CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE DIAGNOSE ME?? Oh, and I have TMJ. I saw my symptoms online so it must be true.

So if you’re looking for me this summer, you can either find me at the dermatologist getting a chemical peel or frantically rubbing my face with lemons, getting liposuction because God knows I’m too lazy to hit the gym, at CVS stocking up on boxes of hair color and at the geriatric psychiatrist for weekly evaluations and if all else fails just come knocking on my door at the retirement home.

Bingo anyone?

I'm the one wearing the pantyhose.

See that empty chair? They’re already saving me a spot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*After carefully reviewing the costs of all these procedures, I have forcefully decided to age gracefully.

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antique store visit #345

My husband loves to go antique shopping even though he is obviously not a middle-aged woman. I on the other hand start sneezing and find myself short of breath every time he suggests we go to an antique store. You might be wondering why a 35-year-old man loves to go to antiquing, because that’s where he says he finds the best silver spoons. Why spoons? Because he’s the most obsessive perfectionist chef I’ve ever met. The spoons have to be a certain size and have to be made of silver because when he’s tasting the food the material the spoon was made of cannot come in between the flavor of whatever he’s making and his mouth and he can’t buy 2 o 3 he buys 10 or 12 and I don’t understand any of this. So we go antiquing for spoons. The only reason I go with him (besides the fact that I’m his wife and maybe I should) is because he promises we can go for ice-cream after…err take the girls for ice-cream after.

So we drive downtown where there are 4 or 28 antique stores back to back. I panic because I forget to take my allergy pill and I just know something will make me sneeze and cry for no reason, also the drowsy effect helps make the trip a little more bearable. We walk into the first store, yes, we check out more than one place when hunting for spoons. We live a fast paced life, try to keep up. The air is so thick and humid I can’t breathe, oh here comes the first sneeze… followed by 18 more… aaaand my eyes are crying now. This is great. Don’t they open the windows in here?

As my husband slowly patiently scouts for the perfect spoons, I try to keep the girls from shattering the whole place into pieces. “No, you may not pretend you’re having a tea party with this very, very old and probably germ covered tea set”. $30 for a single tea-cup? Unless it was used by Queen Elizabeth and it still has some of her left over tea in it, I don’t think so. Time to go? Yes! Wait, what do you mean you didn’t see any good spoons? How many different kinds can there be?!?! On to the next. Sigh.

“Do you mind if I wait outside with the girls? No? Ok”. Antique store visit #345 wasn’t any better, it was even more crowded than the first one. How do people walk in here without knocking everything down? I pictured myself walking through a maze of lasers, like that French guy breaking into the museum on that Oceans Twelve movie, only I’m not at all flexible, my hands are busy trying to keep the girls from breaking anything breakable and I’m carrying a purse the size of the Grand Canyon.  I managed to sit us down on a sofa so old my great-grandmother would’ve probably bought as a vintage piece.

I can smell the dust

I can smell the dust

While patiently waiting for my husband to find his beloved spoons, my daughters spot a set of old, I mean, vintage jewelry and ask me if they could buy “something fancy”, unfortunately, no one was going to walk out with anything fancy, but I did manage to entertain them with the most elaborate story as to who those jewels used to belong to. All I know is that a very famous queen that had a Pegasus for a pet used to wear them. That led us to talk about pets, which led us to talk about the absence of a pet in our home, which led us to choose a future pet which we’ll name Lily Pink Sunny Sunshine. We’re still not sure if it’s going to be a puppy, a kitten or a Pegasus. Still deciding.

Maybe she'll fit in the balcony

Lily Pink Sunny Sunshine. Maybe she’ll fit in the balcony

We walk around for a couple of minutes and I slowly start discovering some stuff worth looking at, maybe antique shopping deserves a second chance.

ahhhh so this is why this whole antiquing thing is so popular

ahhhh so this is why this whole antiquing thing is so popular

But then I turn around and see this:

photo 2

she will haunt you in your dreams

photo 1

the soul sucker

What the hell??? All I know is that I ran from that soul-sucking doll as fast as I could, packed my things and fled the country. Screw antique shops, next time we go to the mall.