Like the acquisition of a pacemaker isn't enough to make a 36 year old woman feel like a geriatric. With my vacation tan fading fast, and the crows feet clawing their way through my epidermis, I am reminded I am geriatric. Now, I didn't hit every single branch when I fell out of the ugly tree, but I no longer carry the blush of youth. I actually have to carry blush. What has begun to drive this point home is the following comment: "Did you used to model?" That's past tense.
Let's face it. I suppose there are worse things people could say. Like " I know what VHS is, I was born in '91!", "Who's Andrew McCarthy?" and "What's an encyclopedia?" I guess looking like an over the hill model is better than looking like a six feet under model.
I mean it's my own damn fault. I like the sun. Sue me. Actually don't. As well as being the wrong side of 30 I'm also penniless. Sunshine is my vice. Other people have different vices, gambling, drinking, crystal meth. To each his own. Mine is carcinogenic levels of Vitamin D. Perhaps booze is a better choice? I think it pickles you. Whatever, I don't have the cash to buy booze and I don't have a life savings to fritter away at the slots.
I suppose stress could be partially to blame for the "aging". It seems to be society's scapegoat. However I think there are stats to prove it may actually be a valid scapegoat. I wouldn't say I'm stressed. But I do my fair share of unnecessary and occasionally necessary worrying. This may not have anything to do with the threat of age-spots, but I wager it's got something to do with the wrinkles, not to mention the cynicism and crabby moods.
A sure sign of old-age, and one that I'm entirely comfortable with: cantankerous-ness.