Daylight savings time -- or WHATever, the switch back to Standard Time -- is kicking my ass. For some reason -- probably orchestrated by Satan -- Tori now gets up around 5:30am; before the time change, she generally slept until 7:30am or so, which means she is now getting up an hour earlier than she used to. What the hell? She goes to bed at the same time. I don't get it.
I know I'm very lucky; Charlie and I alternate mornings with Tori (as we also alternate bed time duty) so every other day we get to stay in bed for as long as we need to (although, admittedly, Tori's morning volume combined with our rather small house is making that more difficult, plus work schedules are getting us both up pretty early these days). But I'm finding my body heavy and dull during the day, and I can't seem to adjust to the darkness coming so early.
When I was a kid, I don't remember even noticing the time changes. When I was a teenager, I griped about it but didn't really physically feel it. When I was in my twenties, I loved this time of year. I loved working in the city and going home in the dark with all the buildings lit up. I loved how easy it was to walk into the bar and not feel like I was drinking during the day at happy hour. I never got enough sleep during those years; I drank until 2 or 3am nearly every night at arrived at work at 8 or 9am (depending on the job) with no problem, although I had at least one boss hand me a breath spray cause I stunk like beer. I also slept until 3pm on the days I wasn't working, of course. Ah, youth.
Before Tori, I remember it taking a day or two to adjust to the time change, but it was no big deal. But now, damn it, I am feeling my age, and three days into the time change I feel worse than ever. Today I was reminded of my age when I heard that Google is celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Sesame Street; I watched the very first episode when I was about 16 months old with my mom, and you know what? When I got the retro Sesame Street DVDs and watched that first episode again, I fucking remembered it.
I am getting OLD. Frankly, nothing that is now 40 years old should be younger than ME. For fuck's sake.
I've also lost a bit more weight recently; my intuitive eating plan is going along swimmingly (really, it's been just amazing) and while for the first year I lost barely a half a pound a month, something seems to have clicked and I am losing more now. (Please remember that weight loss is not my goal, but an unexpected yet welcome side effect of my getting more fit and having a nice and healthy relationship with food.) I'm hovering around a number that I haven't been under since before I was pregnant with the boys. It feels good.
But the loss of some -- oh, let's call it filler -- shows in my face. I have smile lines now that don't disappear when I stop smiling. My upper lip is showing signs of those sixteen years of sucking on cigarettes, and they too no longer disappear unless I'm smiling.
I don't mind this show of aging, not really. I view it somewhat ruefully, actually, feeling like I am due to finally start showing some of the evidence of the rough shit I put my body through. I mean, think about it: yo-yo dieting and weight loss and gain; drinking, smoking, and drugs; infertility treatments; a twin pregnancy and unexpected loss; a second pregnancy at nearly 40. Of course my poor body has been through the ringer, and is starting to show it. It's not a bad thing, really, it's just... there.
I think the only element of aging I hate, really, is how young people in their twenties look now. I remember liking a new song I heard on the radio, and then I happened to see the music video and the woman singing was just... God, she was a KID. How could she possible sing those lyrics and act like she has any fucking idea about life? It's so... arrogant. And smells like bullshit. I stopped liking the song.
I also stopped watching music videos.*
When I drive through West Philadelphia where two major universities are, I can't believe the children I see walking around are old enough to be attending college. I also find myself surprised by that fact, because I remember how fucking annoying it was to be scoffed at when I was in my twenties and being told I was so young. I did NOT feel young in my twenties. Oddly, I feel fairly young now.
I also remember thinking, twenty years ago, that everyone in their 40s was so. fucking. old. It's... startling to know, now, how stupid it was to think that. It's funny, I don't even think of my mother or my friend's parents as "old." I met a woman the other day that told me she was 70, and I sincerely thought she was my peer in age, or pretty close.
This, I suspect, is the best gift of aging. Other than looking at the really young, I no longer much care about the age difference between me and those older than I am, or those ten years younger. My peer group has enlarged exponentially, and I am able to listen to most people with an open heart, really hearing what they are saying without assigning them any characteristics based on age. I hope this continues (and I'm working on the attitude about folks more than ten years younger).
The other gift -- one I've mentioned here often -- is the absolute comfort I have with myself and my choices, my hopes, and my dreams. I am living comfortably in my skin, I am not apologizing for being me, and I am generally content with my life. Struggles with money (oh yeah, cranky post last week? totally PMS) and other issues no longer truly stand in the way of my general peace with life, and happiness with my day-to-day living. I love my work, I love my husband, I love my daughter, I have great friends and family, and I absolutely enjoy the amount of space I take up in the world.
If the price I pay for this is a few lines on my face, well, it's worth it.
*Of course as soon as I said that, I had to turn on VH1. I love me some Lady Gaga, I must admit.
