Sometime in the past five years, when I wasn’t looking, I became old.
I started noticing it last year, when I returned to full-time work after several years of freelancing. Maybe it was the fact that most of my colleagues were a good decade younger than my 38-year-old self.
Or maybe it was that I had turned into the quintessential mom: the kind who, if she had an adult son, would call him up—at work—to ask how to program the DVR because “your dad is out of town and forgot to record ‘The Closer’ even though I asked him to do it before he left. It’s just like your Dad. I ask him to do one thing!”
It seems technology has left me behind. I’ve run to our office IT guy in a panic before, to relay: “Microsoft Word suddenly froze on me.”
He patiently asked, “Have you tried force-quitting out of it and rebooting the program?”
“Oh. No. Should I do that?”
“Oh. OK. …How do I force-quit out of Microsoft Word?”
The signs of aging continue to mount. Four months ago, I found a gray hair in my eyebrow. My left knee makes a snapping noise every time I do squats. I can’t seem to sleep through the night anymore without having to get up to go pee.
I have never been the kind of person to obsess about aging. But suddenly, all these signs of my fading youth are converging and I’m—
Sorry, scrap that.
I was going to wax philosophic about how these apparent signs of aging are making me face my mortality and realize how I need to start making my mark upon this world. But then I discovered that I had somehow unknowingly signed up for a Google+ account. I’ve apparently been a Google+ member since July. It seems I have a circle and everything. I’ve even managed to—again unknowingly—post stuff on Google+.
And now it’s obvious that what’s bothering me is not my limited remaining time on this Earth. No. What’s really bothering me is that I am fucking old. And a moron to boot.