THIRD-LIFE CRISIS

Tick, tick, tick.

I have no control over my body. I like to think that I do, eating healthy, exercising, balancing good things with some not so good things so that I am not deprived of anything. I also like to think that I am in control of my own mind but we all know that our conscience has a mind of its own.

Tick, tick, tick.

How does one judge the aging process and when it will affect each individual? We’re all different, so am I wrong to assume that mid-20s is too young for grey hair and early 30s is too young for wrinkles? I was late for puberty – my body did not curve outwardly until I started college – so why do I feel like I am too early for the elderly process?

Tick, tick, tick.

Did you know that a woman is born with all of the eggs she will ever have in her whole life and that those eggs will continue to drop until she just runs out of eggs?

Tick, tick.

What about the mid-life crisis? Am I too young for the mid-life crisis, because I plan on living well beyond 64.

Tick, tick.

Thirty-two. I am 32. I like to forget that I am 32 and most of the time believe that I am 33 or 35. I have no idea why. Luckily, I don’t have a lot of people asking me my age these days. I suppose the wrinkles on my forehead ensure the trendy young bartenders that I am no longer 20; no one wants to see my ID.

Tick.

Third-life crisis – that’s what I’ll call it. Although, does that make it sound like I have already had two crises? That wouldn’t be good.

Tick.

I had a moment a few weeks ago – a moment that nearly destroyed me. I was up in Cleveland, staying with Paul’s aunt. Family was due to arrive any minute so that we could celebrate the youngest cousin’s 17^th birthday. Decidedly ready for the festivities, I glanced into the mirror because I am a vain woman and I do that sort of thing. What I saw became a life-altering moment.

My used-to-be-blonde hair was tied back into a lower bun thing and my grey roots were as plentiful as kudzu. My ball-shaped earrings were perfectly placed on my lobes to accompany the blue cable-knit merino wool turtleneck sweater I chose to wear over sweatpants, adorning a pair of sheepskin house slippers on my feet.

“This is the moment,” I said to myself with absolutely certainty, nodding my head for extra confirmation. “This is the moment that I become a middle-aged spinster.”

Two days later I made an appointment to have my hair cut and dyed. Within three hours I was again a 30-something but no one told my forehead.

After my hair appointment I drove straight to Sephora so that I could buy – I kid you not – botox in a bottle. Now, I have been very clear with all of my people that I intend to never have facial surgery and I would never consider having botox needles poked into my face. Piercing two ears was enough of a nightmare. No more needles!

But this muscle-relaxing, self-proclaimed, “needles no more” remedy, I was told, was flying off the shelf. I paid the $90 for the half-ounce bottle because there are wrinkles on my forehead at 32 – deep, Grand Canyon, granny wrinkles – and I left. For the next several days, I had a weird, tingly feeling on my forehead but I kept up with the twice daily routine because I don’t want anyone seeing the middle-aged spinster that I am trying so desperately to hide. Thirty-two!

And why am I getting wrinkles on my forehead and pimples on my chin? I should sell tickets to this dichotomy. So I am putting $90 fill-in-my-wrinkle cream on my forehead and $6 Neutrogena kill-my-pimple cream on my chin. Welcome to your 30s, ladies.

Paul and I spent the next week in New Jersey while he interviewed with two companies. I had a speaking engagement the upcoming weekend, so I continued with my plans to appear younger than I am by getting the gel nail polish on my fingernails and proceeded to be spray tanned like Ross on FRIENDS. While in New Jersey…

Spray tanned. I AM 32!!

The next day, looking only slightly orange, I wondered to myself, what am I doing? I thought that I might return to my senses. HA! The crazy hit again, on a whole new level.

Eggs. I have eggs but I can’t tell you how many. I read all the time about what happens when women over 30 want to get pregnant, and I know that more of my friends who actually wanted babies had to go through rounds of fertility treatments than my friends who were able to conceive naturally. I have known this for the last few years.

I suddenly became acutely aware that I right then had a certain number of eggs left in me and that every month thereafter, I would continue to lose one egg. I started to consider how many I had lost already. Fourteen…right after my birthday, so that’s 18 years of losing 12 eggs annually. How many eggs do I have left, I wondered…

And then I Googled how to find out how many eggs I have. And – here’s the kicker – I’m not trying to get pregnant. If I did, it would be fine but I am not life planning right now. But maybe that’s why. My brain and my body are on two completely different life plans and I am suddenly abundantly aware that I do not control either.

Tick.