I hope I die before I get old

What exactly am I supposed to think when I walk into a 8-year-old’s birthday party, and the grandfather of the birthday boy says to the mom of the birthday boy, “Wow, parents sure are older these days than they were when you were little.” I think I cackled some slightly hysterical reply asking why he said it when I walked in, and then he backpedaled and said he was 19 when his first child was born, and, “What are you, in your mid 20s?” Yeah right. Maybe it seemed worse because Dave and I had just been talking about how we feel so old and creaky from lack of sleep and, from, you know, getting old. Plus he was mocking me about how I’m most comfortable driving a few mph under the speed limit. And I feel like I keep seeing couples with young children where the father is all spry and springy and handsome, and the mother is totally haggard and grey-haired with giant eye bags. Whenever I see a photo of myself I totally think, “Good god, who is that witchy old lady with the gut? Oh, great, it’s ME.” Ok, maybe it’s not that bad, but apparently I’m not 17. Much to my surprise.

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