Reserve my bed at the old folks' home

In September I will turn 37, which used to seem wicked old but totally isn't.  I imagine I will say this about every age I live to see.....43, 56, 68, 74.  Dare I say 83 or 92?

Even though I don't feel old, per se, I have lately been reminded of the process of aging.

The first issue that I've been noticing is weight gain among people as they age.  I am, by no means, the size I was in high school, but I'm not too much beyond it.  My body composition has changed due to having my babies.  I am not as limber as I once was.  But I hope to become increasingly fit in the next few years.  I have said I want an 8-pack (abs) by the time I'm 40, which may or may not come to fruition.  There is only so much one can do with a muffintop, which I am so sportin' since M came along.

I want to have more stamina, have some nice muscle tone.  Be healthier.  Right now fitness comes second to time alone to decompress and sleep.  Once my children are out of this very needy stage, I will be able to devote more time to taking care of myself.

But I see family members and friends who have grown flabby, and it scares me.  Because given modern conveniences and food options, it is easy for this to happen.  Plus changes in metabolism once a person hits 40 years of age.  Throw in a couple of babies and the normal process of mom taking care of everyone but herself and there you have an extra 30+ pounds.

I would be lying if I said how I looked isn't important to me.  Clothes, cosmetics, shoes....this part of how I look is unimportant.  But how my body looks is.   How I feel about how my body looks is even moreso.

The second issue that has made me feel a little old is the fact that I won't be venturing out to see The Flaming Lips this evening for a number of reasons.  One, there is the breastfeeding.  M usually needs a feeding around 11:00 p.m., which is when the Lips would be on.  Yes, I could pump, but M hasn't taken a bottle in months and months.  And the worry of whether he'd wake up and whether he'd accept a bottle of expressed milk would dampen the experience of a concert.

Then there is the money.  When I have groceries, 9-month-baby pictures and diapers to buy this week, spending $60 on a 2-hour concert seems wasteful.  I don't know that my enjoyment of the concert would outweigh the anxiety I'd feel looking at the checkbook knowing I could have used that money to buy other more necessary things.

And finally, there is the knowledge that if I did go, I would be surrounded by lots and lots and lots of young, young people.  High school and college students.  Young people who can't imagine other things  being more important than seeing a really cool band at a really cool festival.  Who are willing to stand in the heat.  In a ginormous crowd.  For a long time.  And then sit in traffic afterwards.  And stay up really late.  And totally say it was worth it tomorrow.

I used to feel that way myself some 15 or more years ago.

But as I pondered whether to go I thought about standing in a big crowd in the heat, sweating profusely, worrying about whether the kids were waking up, how D was handling M if he had to give him a bottle, fuming in traffic afterwards because I need to get home and into bed so that I could be a half-way decent mom in the a.m., wondering how bad my tinnitus would be tomorrow.

And all that boiled down to "It would be more of a hassle to go than to not."

Which made me feel recognize that I'm not a young person anymore.  I'm not footloose and fancy-free.   I have reached the stage of life where partying and staying out late and the sweet smell of pot wafting in the air isn't cool.

Which means I may, in fact, not be young enough to actually know what constitutes cool.