I remember the first moment I knew I was getting old. I was in a Strawberries record store, reminiscing about the Garbage Pail Kids to the teenager behind the counter, who snapped her gum at me and said these words:
"Uh, that was before my time."
I let her live, but talk crap about her every time I re-tell that story. I think she ruined all teenagers for me, because now when I see teenagers I think they should go put on a belt and get off my lawn. I did particularly enjoy the teenagers in my old neighborhood, who thought they were invisible when ten of them hid from the passing cars. Behind, like, three trees.
Nothing says "I climbed out my window to smoke pot with my friends" like removing all doubt of guilt by doing this as soon as you see headlights.
I was all set to be 29 again this year, so when the huz starting throwing around the talk of thirty, I feigned an insulted gasp, and then berated him for not knowing my age. My plan worked perfectly until he caught up with my BFF, who set him straight because, "she does not get to get out of turning thirty." So now I have to wax my eyebrows and put a bra on, and hide my laundry piles for a party tomorrow.
And this morning I woke up to this:
I feel some gray hairs growing as we speak.