I turned 37 in December. I have not trouble with that particular number of years. I am untroubled by it. Life is a much more full experience as I grow into middle age than it was when I was younger.
I look in the mirror, though, and there are those lines. They used to show up only after a late night or when I was ill. Now, suddenly, they are there all the time. They hide behind my glasses and shock me when I get ready for bed at night.
I am starting to look more and more my age.
I had no idea that I was so vain. A co-worker's mother guessed that I was 32 last week, and it stung. It felt vicious. That is five years younger than I actually am, but it placed me firmly in my thirties. I have less than three years left before I turn 40, and yet I rail against the fact that I might look like I belong to this decade of my life.
It's ridiculous. I embarrass myself.
I dyed my hair. I like the silvering of my hair quite a bit, but my vanity had me forking over seven dollars for a box of hair dye from a sale table. My hair is very short, and the dye was very dark, so now my hair looks like close-fitting hat. The grey is gone, though.
It is a good thing that I don't have the money for a plastic surgeon. Otherwise, in a fit of juvenile foot-stompery, I might opt to have some of my thigh fat injected into my upper lip. This tends to make people look like ducks, but I like ducks.
Do you like ducks?