Last night I asked Dan to get my wrist brace from downstairs so I could put on my last piece of my Darth Vader evening wear and go to sleep. He said, “Dork Vader?”
I’ve got my zit cream, my plastic mouth guard and my black wrist brace. Just add a helmet and a few more electronic devices (I sleep with my PDA at arm’s reach.) and I’m a Saturday Night Live caricature of the geeky evil one.
Sometimes I feel like a combination between a 14 year-old just hitting puberty and an 80-year-old woman whose body is falling apart. It’s possible that all these symptoms are related to bearing and raising children or maybe I’m just at a weird vortex between the two ages.
My skin is breaking out and breaking down. It appears that blemish and wrinkle-fighting face wash may become my new best friend. Ever since Dan and I started discussing thinking about maybe planning on possibly getting pregnant again sometime in the next few years, my cycles have gone junior high crazy. My joints hate me and I’m needing braces for all kinds of parts just to do basic things like walk, bend over to pick cheerios out of the carpet and hold Magoo upside down over the sink for a hose-off.
All signs indicate that I should be drinking more water but I’m already so sick of going to the potty. It’s such a waste of my valuable time, time I could be using to blow on Laylee’s watercolors till they dry, pretend to eat plastic food under the slide and possibly shower.
At 28 years of age, I can frequently be heard saying, “I’m OOOOOLD!” as I creak my way along. I need to lose weight for optimum health. I just need to make some fundamental changes in the way I live so that my body will learn to like me again.