I’ve been feeling out of sorts
lately, and it always surprises me how much better I feel after writing. It’s
exactly the reason I started this blog in the first place—to see my thoughts
written out in a somewhat coherent way is cathartic for me. And yet, I forget
how good it feels every time. My journal, (which is a little less sarcastic and
has a whole lot more feelings), doesn’t require drafts or editing (except when
I’m redacting my high school years for posterity’s sake), so it doesn’t have
the same therapeutic effect. Believe me, if you think my blog is erratic and
tangential, you should read my journal. It sounds like it’s written by 7
different people.
So, it finally happened to me. Back in January, I turned 25. I’ve been in denial ever since. I had to rent a car the other day, and my hands started sweating when I realized I could put my own information in and not my
30-year-old sugar daddy’s info (Billy). And you know how when you subscribe to a
website, they ask what age range you’re in? I’m not even in the first age
category anymore. Rest in peace, 18-24.
I didn’t think it would be that big
of a deal, but it has really thrown me into a panic. I threw out all of my beauty products and
stocked up on anything and everything with retinol in it. I’m pretty sure I
have retinol in my deodorant. I’m also toying with the idea of getting
preventative Botox. A few years ago, my sister-in-law was getting certified to
give facial injections of the miracle drug and offered to practice on me for
free as part of her training. I completely trusted her, but I declined because
I didn’t feel like I was “that kind of girl”. At the time, it seemed
hypocritical to get Botox since I’ve always identified as a tomboy and didn’t obsess about top
of the line makeup or expensive clothes. I always try to look good, but Target
suits me just fine. But on the day I turned 25, I woke up seriously regretting
my anti-chemical/surgery stance. Give me all the Botox.
I know you’re probably supposed to worry
about your health your whole life, but I missed that memo. Everyone warned me,
“Tanning will make you look like Yzma from the Emperor’s New Groove” or “Diet
Coke is how they administer chemotherapy orally”. I’ll blame it on my brain not
being fully developed until 25 (the only positive of this ghastly age, although
it’s not that positive because I can’t blame my ineptitude on my brain
anymore), but when people would tell me these things, I would wave it off. That
stuff happens to old people. I think I even used to say, “I’d rather look good
while I’m young and have skin cancer when I’m older than be pale”.
*Gritted-teeth emoji* That’s just the narcissistic version of YOLO, right? My
parents really should have given me a good slap every now and then. But now
that I’m 25, I’m scared as hell. I’m positive that I’ll pay for my recklessness
and disregard for my health pretty soon, so I’m trying to reverse all the
damage I’ve already done*. I’ve even started another stint of working out and
eating clean. I’m hoping this time it will stick, because Billy and I both feel
like we would be the first to go in a zombie apocalypse because of our
sitting-at-a-desk-all-day muscles. Or lack thereof.
I’m in the worst shape that
I’ve ever been in. I tried to hike a mountain with a bunch of the wives down
here. I think it’s a 4-mile round trip hike (that’s probably being generous)
and I gave up. There were 3 girls with 6-month olds strapped to their chests
that did the whole thing. Mind you, the hike was pretty steep, I hadn’t worked
out for 2 months for medical reasons and we were going at a very fast pace--I’m
more of a hike 2 minutes, rest for 10 kind of girl. But I can’t get over the
fact that I actually quit. I’m 25 years old and if I had to run up that
mountain to avoid a tsunami, I would die. My ancestors and Charles Darwin would
be ashamed. (Just so you don't think I've entirely let myself go, mangoes are back in season and it's all I eat now. My colon is very happy!)
 |
| Going to town on a mango. This is why no one ever wanted a second date with me. |
I guarantee you I will not live
until I’m 100, so I’m more than ¼ of the way through my life. Which is beyond scary. When
I got married at 3 weeks shy of 21(yes, that means 20), I figured I might as
well start popping out children before I turn 26. Why 26, you ask? It is the magical age that Obama designated when I get booted off my parents’ health insurance. The goal was to have at
least 2 kiddos by now so I could get my parents’ money’s worth of prenatal and
maternity care. However, my fallopian tubes have quite the sense of humor. Since I’ll definitely be 26 and childless,
I’m back to being a student again while fighting off wrinkles, sun damage, and
obesity. Did I mention I live on a Caribbean island where the sun is always
shining, and it’s too hot to run outside? Every outside yoga class is Bikram
whether you want it to be or not. Even swimming laps in the ocean (water
temperature is an average of 80.6ยบ F) could give you heatstroke. So, these
self-improvement plans might also be on hold until we’re back in the states.
But I always feel better knowing that Billy is turning 30 next year. Because if
I think 25 is bad, I know 30 is going to be miserable. I feel so lucky to have
Billy and his receding hairline to put things into perspective.
*I wrote this post yesterday, and then today, I played beach volleyball and went swimming. And got super burnt in the process (pictured below). So, probably don't ever listen to anything I ever say. I'm not to be trusted. BUT NOTICE THE FOREHEAD WRINKLES!!!!
