I sound like a freakin’ broken record on this whole aging thing, and truth be told it surprises me more than I realize most of the time, but then things like this crop up and all this stuff comes to light. And I still don’t remember to wash my face every night or use the eye cream I spent $35 on. Except now I notice my pores are enlarged, and I do a Google search to find out why, and it’s because I don’t remember to wash my face every night and even though since I’ve been about nineteen I’ve figured “no damage is permanent, right?” it turns out that it actually kinda is, because once those little pores get stretched out it’s kinda hard to shrink them. Unless, of course, you’re nineteen.
It would be terribly stereotypical to lament “the wasted years” and express disappointment about how, when I was a teen-age girl — reading Sharon Olds’ poetry and fantasizing about the wonderfully erotic and sensual adult life I would have (with a lov-ah or two) — I thought so many things would have happened by now, including those I promised myself I’d have by the time I turned twenty-five: a PhD in comparative Russian literature, a fluffy white dog, a fantastic house complete with a “real” library (rolling ladders and all). Besides being stereotypical, though, it would be inaccurate to say I’m upset — either about wasted years or the lack of a dog, house, library, PhD, and/or a lov-ah (or two). Getting older is more akin to waking up one morning and thinking, “Hmm — my fat pants have been loose lately; what if I try on my skinny pants?” and you do, and they fit, and then you hop on the scale, and you’ve lost 22 pounds without quite knowing how.
I’m not upset. I’m just a bit startled as to how this could have happened.