The year I turned 30, I thought there would be some sort of dramatic transformation as if I would really feel old. Turns out, 30 was a breeze.
The year I turned 31 I noticed a dramatic change in my memory. I once had a darling roommate who would forget names all the time and I would give her a hard time. She’d mix up names and think the clothing store in the mall was called Hugh Grant. In my 31st year, karma struck back and I began to forget names ALL. THE. TIME.
Along with 32 came the gray hair. Certainly, 32 has not been the most stress-free year for me so maybe that added to the growing collection of gray invaders. But the grays came in force, unruly and unrepentant.
Each year, I get a new symptom. I don’t always identify it until half the year is over but each year is clearly signified by another sign of getting older. I’m not bitter about it – I’m glad it’s coming one at a time (at least for now).
I’m turning 33 next week and I think I already know what this year will bring. Check out the bags under my eyes in this recent picture. What the…? Seriously? Granted, the lighting and angle is not optimal but come on, that is some serious puffiness. So. My 33rd year is going to be puffy. The kind of puffy that even a really comfy pair of stretchy pants can’t help. Oy.