Getting older with belly shirts and Don Williams

Just a quickie post today. Work is sapping my will to create and, in my free time, I’m desperately trying to plow through Of Human Bondage, which is not horrible, but it is 900-some pages and not exactly a cheer-fest. It’s bleak, man. Bleak. I’ve gotta get through it, though. I feel invested.

So a few random thoughts…

• There’s a young woman at my gym who tucks her t-shirt up into her sports bra, exposing an expanse of white manatee belly that undulates with the rhythm of the elliptical machine in the most horrifying, hypnotizing way. Confidence is a good thing, but there’s something to be said for healthy self-awareness…and mercifully wearing a shirt as it was intended.

• Speaking of self-awareness, I had a birthday last weekend. It was a rough one. I’ve decided not to have another one. I’m holding here. No more for me, thanks. I spent all of April dreading my birthday, feeling old and tired and panicked about the next birthday (it’s a whopper). So, I’m just going to pass from here out.

• I know I’m getting old because:

  1. I suddenly love Don Williams
  2. I whine about how young people dress (see above)
  3. I only want to read or watch love stories about people in their 30s or beyond. If you can choose to live with someone past age 30, you’re either blind, crazy, or completely in love. Otherwise, it’s not worth making room in the closet.

I’m leaving you now with this. If you like it, you’re officially old. Welcome to the club.

It’s not a hickey

Okay, so it really looks like a hickey (which, if true, would fit the “I Should Be So Lucky” category of misfortunes), this giant red bruise on the side of my neck. But, if you look closely, you’ll notice the hickey is topped by a zit, a sort of hickey helmet, which brings me to my embarrassing story of the month.

Last night, I discovered a small-ish zit on my neck. I had to pop it (picking pimples is great stress relief), so I squeezed and squeezed, and even threw in a knuckle-squeeze, to no avail. Defeated, I blobbed zit cream on it, slapped on a dot Band Aid, and went to bed.

At the gym this morning, I was sweating like crazy, shirt drenched, uncomfortably prominent butt sweat, the whole nine. Out of the corner of my eye, in the reflection of the gym mirror, I saw the Band Aid still on my neck. Because of the sweat, the edges were lifting off (it looked like a fried egg), exposing a giant red-purple hickey. The pimple wasn’t even visible next to the dark bruise (the best pimple concealing strategy ever?). I gasped.

I am a 34-year-old woman trying to cover a self-induced hickey with a Band Aid.

If anyone asks, I have a boyfriend at another school and, no, you don’t know him because he just moved here from Santa Fe and he’s in a lot of AP classes and he’s training for the Olympics so he’s really busy. But, I totally have a boyfriend and he’s, like, 6’5” and he’s super crazy about me, even though you’re never going to meet him because his dad is in the Secret Service and you know how that goes. I can’t even have a picture of him because of, like, national security. See my hickey? It’s not like I gave this to myself. That’s pathetic. Gahh…