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  • Writer's pictureTina

Someone Should Have Told Me...


Aging looks cute on a pug...




If you are a frequent blog reader, you know my affinity for preparedness. I think being well-informed, well-prepared, and ready for almost any scenario is important. Being prepared makes me feel less anxious and more confident and gives me what is probably a false sense of control. False or not, I’ll take it. But guess what, dear reader? Nobody prepared me for aging. There was no handbook written, no formal class to take, and no Pinterest board to gather valuable facts. Nope, there is nothing.


When my little bean began to grow, I read all the books: What to Expect the First Year, Baby’s First Year of Milestones, How to Raise a Smart and Happy Child, etc. I did things like softly playing classical music all through the night. I made my own baby food. We were stringent about a routine. I did sensory play, read books, sang songs, and always talked to her like an adult. I took my job of being a mom very seriously.


Then, she entered toddlerhood. Again, I read books about developing her brain, teaching her kindness, sharing, and empathy, and we focused a lot on love and security. I am an explainer. Right or wrong, I am honest with my daughter. If she asked if a shot would hurt, I would level with her and tell her it might pinch a little, burn afterwords, or be sore for a few days, but I always followed with it isn’t anything you can’t handle. You are the strongest, bravest girl I know. She never cried about getting a shot until she was five and saw another child panic and meltdown over getting a shot.


Then we moved on to puberty. I read books about how to talk about all the upcoming changes she would experience. I bought her books about her body, self-image, peer interactions, and social pressure. I put together a “period box” way before it was ever needed. It included everything to make her experience positive: a heating pad, personal products of every type, books, Pamprin, leak-proof underpants, and chocolate. I wanted her to feel prepared and confident she could handle anything.


My preparedness has worked up to this point. My bean is confident, secure, outgoing, kind, brave, intelligent, and an overall good kid. Unlike my bean, there isn’t anyone creating a menopause box for me. Nobody is reading books to help me process through getting older. I’m just swingin’ in the wind…like a chubby, deflated windsock. Sigh.


I remember being in my twenties and my mom, aunts, and older women making snarky comments like,” You just wait, you won’t be twenty-two forever” or the ever-popular “Getting old is a bitch!” I also remember blowing off these comments and thinking, “Whatever! I’ll never get fat, have wrinkles, or wear clothes for pure comfort.” Ha! The universe heard that and said, “Hold my beer.”


Let us talk about the things nobody shares with you:

Compression Socks. Nobody ever mentioned compression socks are your friend. Nobody bothered to mention that when you hit a certain age, your legs and feet swell if you walk too much, don’t walk enough, eat salt, exercise, lift weights, sit on the couch, eat a hotdog, or drink too much water. You get the picture. Nobody told me that one day I would be wearing black, synthetic fiber socks that go up to my who-ha to keep the water in my legs and feet from making me look like the creature from the black lagoon. Nobody told me that I would wear unfashionable socks out of necessity and they would become part of my everyday wardrobe. Who does this? Why withhold that cruelly vital information? Rude, that’s what it is, dear reader. Just plain rude.


Comfortable Shoes. Again, no one ever bothered to mention that all those cute, six-inch heals you pranced around in when you are under 45 will someday turn your feet into bulging painful growths of extra bone and joint separation. It’s called a bunion, and it’s Satan’s reward for vanity. Seriously, bunions are born in hell, spawned in your big toe joint, and birthed on your 45th birthday. Cruel, that’s what a bunion is, dear reader. Forget Jimmy Choo, your best friend will become wide, bulky rubber clogs with cartoon-like accessories to dress them up named after ugly reptiles. You will wear the ones with holes all through them in the summer and giggle with glee when you find a sherpa-lined pair at T.J. Maxx for $30 that will keep your aching feet warm in the winter. It’s real, my friend. I swore I would never own a pair of Crocs. Now, I own several pairs. I have my “house Crocs,” “soap Crocs,” “market Crocs,” and “barn Crocs.” I try not to wear them in public, but often, they are there, they are comfortable, and they are the only thing that doesn’t make me weep in agony when I slip them onto my birthed-from-hell bunion. Pair Crocs with black, who-ha-length compression socks, and you are a walking billboard of cruel middle-aged jokes. Nobody ever shared this with me, but it’s a thing.


Comfortable pants. Comfortable pants include anything without a zipper. Preferably, said comfortable pants have a “belly panel” to hold you in, and if you are lucky, they include a “butt lift” panel to raise your forming “granny butt,” but that’s a whole new paragraph. Comfortable pants consist of breathable material. Nobody ever mentioned that once you hit a certain age, the ability of a material to breathe will become a fashion factor. I now own a lot of comfortable pants. Some of the said pants are yoga pants, leggings, jeggings, sweatpants, and flowy linen pants. These pants have no shape and no waist; nothing is flattering about comfortable pants. If you buy the wrong size, you suffer a camel toe or, worse, a moose knuckle. Advice, buy the bigger size of pants. Cleavage can be tasteful, but nobody ever looked at a moose knuckle and said, “Classy.”


The ever-dreaded “granny butt.” You know what I speak of, dear reader. The fact that your once tight, svelte buttocks fit into the palm of your hand and were closer to your back than your knee is now measured in handfuls…plural, and you have this weird sag at the bottom of your bottom. Leg lifts, squats, mountain climbers, yoga, and pilates can stave it off for a while, but we are all destined to have the granny butt. Nobody ever shared this cruel tidbit of information when I was in my thirties. Perhaps I would have taken up serious exercise sooner, lifted weights, or not eaten cookies. Hell, who am I kidding? I love cookies. However, I may not have been inclined to sit so much or have eaten so many cookies if I had understood the realities of the granny butt.


Lastly, your body is going to betray you. Your body will make you the butt of all its nasty, crass, ill-scented jokes. Nobody ever bothered to mention that you must be very careful about moving when you hit a certain age. If you are sitting at the dinner table with your kid, her beloved bestie, your BFF Jenna, and your bib overall-wearing man-child husband, the conversation will make you laugh out loud… from your bottom. Yep, you are going to pass gas at the most inopportune times. Because you are crass and gross? No, because your ass muscles are weak and old. Your body will become your untrustworthy enemy that plays dirty. Also, nobody bothered to discuss that you will pee your pants a little if you sneeze, cough hard, or puke. Not to mention jumping over a gate from an angry menstruating pig, running from a towel-wielding husband, or jumping out of reach from a Sharpie tattoo artist that wants to draw your eyebrows together. I am very comfortable uttering the exasperated phrase, “Oh, you guys made me pee!” and stomping to the house for a clothes change. My bean and The Bibbed Wonder never tire of laughing over my weak bladder, “the walking farts,” or being called terrible names that would make a sailor blush.


Perhaps, dear reader, when I finish my book about Little Lester, I will write a book about aging, its betrayals, and perils. Growing old is not a lot of fun, but surrounding yourself with people who help you laugh at yourself, never take life too seriously, and feel comfortable farting in front of, makes it an adventure, not a perilous journey. If you are younger than 40, take heed, dear friend. If you are over the age of 4o, I’ve got you. Please send me a message, give me a call, or laugh with me when you see me. I promise we’ll put it all into perspective. I might even be willing to let you borrow The Bibbed Wonder and The Bean to thicken your skin and build your stamina. I’m kidding; I wouldn’t spring those two on anyone.


On this beautiful sunny day, stay safe, be smart, laugh at yourself, and don’t sweat getting older…unless you’re dealing with menopausal hot flashes, then sweat away, and keep washing your hands.

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Kimberly Graham
Kimberly Graham
Apr 06, 2023

Oh so true! But just wait til your 60! Those walking farts become a prelude to pooping your pants Lol Enjoy life it's better that way ❤️💩

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debtown75
debtown75
Apr 05, 2023

Today's blog was so funny, but so true!!

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