To which I replied, "Yes huh!" (that inner 8 year old struck again)
But really, as I am rapidly aging out of the adorable stage of life where I can be called a "twenty-something," I have started seeing the signs of the apocalypse. I am not the bright eyed 22 year old who moved to Cincinnati 7 years ago. Although I still feel like the same person: same humor, same foul mouth, same mischievous streak, same drive for something more, same zest for life, it has become abundantly clear to me that I am not that same girl...and here is how I know that I am a lot closer to 30 than I am to 20:
- I went to the dermatologist last week for something other than acne. I scheduled an appointment to have my moles checked out because I am living in a constant state of cancer-paranoia. I fear that all the years I spent lifeguarding, wearing SPF NOTHING on my skin, will finally catch up to me. Also worth mentioning, I now use my Retin-A prescription as an anti-aging night cream instead of just for acne as I had for years in my early 20s.
- "Happy Hour" is just that pesky thing standing in the way of work and me putting on my stretchy pants. I used to live for the Happy Hour. Drink specials were of critical importance to my post-grad budget...and dudes in suits seemed so much more attractive than when I saw the same dudes out later in their baseball hats/polo shirt/cargo short uniforms. Now, happy hours mess with my plans to cook myself dinner or go to pilates or take Bitchy Little Rat Dog on a hike .... or watch my DVR.
- I don't know who One Direction is, and I don't care. I keep hearing about One Direction in US Weekly, and I was briefly concerned that maybe I should try harder to listen to their music. But based on what I found when I decided I wanted to know more about Karly Rae Whatever (that chick who sings "Call Me Maybe" and is clearly from the Rebecca Black school of song writing), I have no desire to further explore teeny bopper phenomena. Give me Spotify, Pandora, and a handful of music festivals per year and I am satisfied with my musical exploration.
- My mom can't physically touch a baby without commenting on how cute mine will be someday. My mom knows how I feel about having children. Yet, she can't shut up about my non existent ones. She has baby fever like crazy, and it's freaking me out. I still don't feel ready for kids and firmly hypothesize that I never will...but that bitch is persistent. 7 years ago, she would have cried herself to sleep every night if I came home pregnant...now, she would offer to move in with me and raise it. Gag.
- I sometimes wear a sports bra to bed for fear of more sagging.
Sigh. So now, I must go make dinner and try to muster up the energy to go to an 8:30pm showing of "The Art of Rap" with Mademoiselle BlondeMess... Old.