Last year, on the morning I woke up to move our son into his freshman year of college, an article pinged in the news section of my phone. I don’t know why I even looked. I certainly had overcompensating in the form of dorm decor he couldn’t care less about, and a wild array of emotions to suppress under gigantic sunglasses. It was that article we’ve probably all read by now: the body ages rapidly in spurts, first at age 44, then at age 60. Guess how old I was the day we moved him in? So that was fun. 

Who decided it was a good idea to tell people this? Even if you know this information, you don’t have to tell me. I’m dealing with enough at the moment. Legit people have held meetings with Congress to address the fact that aliens are invading, {They’re called UAPs now} but the government has shut down, and this economy is a dumpster fire. We’re too busy to be probed, you guys. We just want good healthcare. 

So, it begs the question, what psychotic journalist thought this little aging gem was a good idea to report to the public? I hope your pillow is always warm for this. Tell my dermatologist. Not me. 

My basement actually looks like this for the winter because I had to save all the plant babies.
Yes, I am trying to fill a hole in my heart. 

When I gave birth, I did things by accident after pushing for a while. It happens. The doctor casually dropped a generous paper layer into the trash bin below and kept going. He did his job with excellent bedside manner, delivering my third-born safely. Not much is lost on me, so I was mortified. But did anyone point it out? No. Did I still ask? Absolutely. Did anyone in the room — including the nurses or my husband, who at that point definitely feared for his own life — give me a straight answer? Also, no.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss. This principle is the same.
So don’t tell me I’m aging rapidly in bursts AS MY CHILDREN LEAVE ME. It’s just as cruel.

I watched “Death Becomes Her” with my daughter a few nights ago, and it definitely hit differently than it did the first time I saw it at 12. Even in my twenties, I was all, “Wow, it sucks to get old. Glad I’ll always have lots of collagen.” Now, I’m on the other side, and I dutifully put it in my coffee each morning. The movie still holds up, in case you were wondering. I consoled myself by eating a Reese’s Peanut Butter Pumpkin, wishing I could drink an immortality elixir to be cute forever because I’m shallow like that, and my joints hurt. But they have 4 grams of protein. It’s called BALANCE. 

I personally believe the body ages rapidly based on how much angst your child causes you in their teenage years, but maybe that’s just me. It’s not like my children have done anything besides grow up. But I must say those prefrontal cortices with a lethal cocktail of raging hormones can be a lot sometimes when you’re trying so hard to do it right. 

Despite my best efforts to “soak this up”, to “enjoy every moment”, trying not to mourn the younger child replaced with an older one as they grow, whilst also maintaining health socially, mentally and physically alongside a career to support everyone… I’m pretty tired. I’m realizing now that striking a balance has been impossible. 

“Get a career,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. I thought I could avoid my feelings if I were too busy to have them. Well, here I am. Greatest regrets over not choosing “trophy wife” as a career aside, and equally obsessed with light therapy masks… The clock is ticking. As it turns out, I have absolutely tied up my entire identity in my family, and with one child flying, one on her way, and the other with only 2.5 years left, and two elderly dogs to boot {cue SJP voice}, I couldn’t help but wonder… what’s next?

There’s a shift happening that I think no one is really prepared for when they get to this point. For me, it’s the aging combined with this massive life change. We grew up hearing about people losing their minds at this stage. We just didn’t think it would happen to us. There’s a reason people cheat, buy the wild car, completely change careers, or act out in some other fill-in-the-blank here. I will not be getting bangs. I say you need a good granny hobby —like gardening and stained glass —to keep you grounded, but also that deep-plane facelift with a side of GLP-1 is looking pretty good right about now.

This is freaking intimidating. 

There’s no instruction manual for this. Just articles telling me what I can do better, paired with those annual not-so-thorough blood tests at the doctor after they make me step on a scale mid-winter, fully clothed, to tell me that I have low vitamin D, and ignore me when I say I need something for my acid reflux. All whilst totally gatekeeping HRT, and having the audacity to make me schedule a colonoscopy. Those are for old people. Oh wait. 

It feels like just yesterday —I was young and hip. Now I say things like: How much protein is in this? What SPF is that? Ooohhh, a cardinal! How many grams of fiber have I gotten today? What’s my testosterone level? I should buy a weighted vest. Springtime me will thank fall me for saving all these plants. {I really did save all the plants, and I’m so proud because springtime me is already so excited.} 

Once again, daylight saving time will be the end of me. This past week, when the time change arrived with its spindly fingers of cold, rainy death, I hit a wall. I do this every year. It’s just that this time, I’m elderly. At precisely 4:30 PM, I immediately ceased working and retreated into the cave that is my bedroom. I tote a space heater and a heating pad around the house, and retiring to the beach no longer seems so crazy. General maintenance, like remembering to shave, is too much work. I’m ready to give up and turn into the old bog hag I’m meant to be. No more workouts with weights and cardio. No more facial treatments and highlights in my hair. No more vitamins, tinctures, creams, and pricey supplements that are supposed to suppress bone density loss. No more reading up to make sure I’m doing all the healthy things to have a put-together aging life. I’m retreating into my cave of oblivion, never to be seen again.

Or Jamin can do what he did to me in 2020 and put a bag over my head whilst I stress-eat Doritos over the sink, with “Shhhh, it’s easier this way.” That would be quicker. 

I’ve always believed that everything is figureoutable. It’s a life mantra for us. As it turns out, there is no escaping the fun fact that if you’ve done your job correctly, your children eventually grow up and leave. It was the goal, after all. And then you’re left with the question: “What now?” I think that can be a pretty exciting question, if you shift your perspective a little. And if I’ve had the privilege of a long life, I’m embracing those laugh lines, right alongside the elevens and the achy joints.

Jamin looked at me after one of my rants the other day and said, “You’re going to be really difficult with this aging thing, aren’t you?”

I won’t go down without a fight. Now pass the Reese’s Pumpkins.

If you’d also like your plant mom starter kit, here are the things I used to keep my sanity this winter:
{I once stored them all on the floor and they died, so this keeps them much more manageable + protects our little potted garden- some are affiliate links.} Shelf {I may add another next fall – I can break it down and store it away in the spring} /
grow light / small watering can / large watering can – game changers!