The other day, I was thinking about how my son will be starting kindergarten next year, and I'm sure to feel like a grown-up by then. Then, I magically skipped from adult to old person in about a week.
I went for my annual at the lady doctor, and he asked me when I was turning thirty-five. "Uh, July?" That doesn't seem right. I mean, yes, my birthday is in July, but thirty-five? That can't be. Then he tells me I need to schedule a mammogram. Say what?! Mammograms are only for ladies in their fifties with giant boobs. Everybody knows that. I am young, and my boobs are small enough that if I did have a lump, anyone passing me on the street would be able to see it. I certainly don't need a machine to squish my practically non-existent cans this way and that, right? Right?
Wrong. A nice lady from the hospital called me a few days later to make an appointment. She told me not to wear any "powders, lotions, or deodorant." Okay, again, I'm not old, so I don't use powder. I don't even fully understand the purpose of powder, to be honest. And I only put lotion on my boobs when I was pregnant, so I wouldn't get stretch marks (cocoa butter smells terrible, but it worked, in case you were curious). But, um, no deodorant? In July? Dude. Gross. I mean, these people are doing this for a living, so I guess they won't be all that surprised when my boob slips out of the squishing machine because it's covered in pit-sweat, but what about the people in the waiting room? They shouldn't have to be subjected to that. Can't they just give me a baby wipe once I'm in the exam room, so I can do a quick whore's bath? No? Ugh.
And then. The final straw. I went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw dry skin. On my eyelid. What in the hell? Who put an old lady eyelid on my face? If I'm supposed to have old person skin now, can someone please tell my forehead, nose, chin, and cheeks? Because they still think I'm fifteen. Seriously, though, what is that? Can I blame it on the dry winter air? Or the fact that I just switched from regular Proactiv to Extra Strength (jealous)? Maybe, maybe not. Because there are also some, uh, lines involved. I'm going to call them baby sparrow's feet, and you'll just have to go along with it.
So I pulled up Frugalista's eye cream guest post on In the Powder Room from wayyyyy back in March, when I was only 33 and didn't need eye cream. What a difference nine months makes, huh? I could have gotten knocked up back then and had a screaming baby and 20 pounds to lose right now. Instead, I have baby sparrow's feet. I'm not sure which I'd prefer, honestly.
I added some Boots eye cream to my Target shopping list based on Rebecca's glowing review, "The cheapest of the good ones I could find." I am strictly a supermarket and Target type of beauty shopper, so even spending fifteen bucks makes cringe a little bit. Luckily, it was on sale! And so were Hello Kitty pajamas! But I didn't get them, because, again, I Am Old Now. So I got a sensible paisley number instead.
But that eye cream better work, because I'm still going to wear glittery eye shadow, baby sparrow's feet be damned.
Dear readers over thirty-four and a half,
You are probably annoyed that I called myself old, and you're older than me. I get that. I apologize. But in my defense, I've been reading a lot of Buzzfeed articles lately with titles like "17 Things That Will Make You Feel Mega Super Old," and then they're all referencing cartoon characters I've never heard of because I was in my twenties when they came out, so I just needed a win. You know what I'm talking about. Also, you look great, and I can't believe you're a day over 26. And I'm sorry this font is so small that you had to put on your "cheaters." Don't sweat it; they make you look distinguished, girl.