I wish I could claim that I’m aging gracefully, but that would be a lie. I’m fighting it with all I’ve got.
I hate the greys in my hair. So I color them.
I hate the wrinkles on my forehead. So I cut bangs.
I use anti-aging face wash and moisturizer, I work out several times a week to try to stay in shape, I do what I can to maintain at least a semi-youthful appearance at the age of 35.
If it’s vain of me, I can live with that.
The other night I ran to Trader Joe’s to pick up a few necessities, one of which was a bottle of wine. The cashier asked me for my ID, which I totally didn’t expect. I sort of half laughed, thinking he was just doing it because he had to, but he didn’t smile back–he actually wanted to see my ID because he thought maybe I wasn’t old enough to buy alcohol. I gladly handed over my license.
My elation over looking super young was short-lived though, because then he looked at my birth date on my license and visibly winced. And then saw my reaction to the wince and said, “You look much younger than you are.”
Too late, buddy. My age just made you grimace.
Good thing I got the wine.