Thirty-one going on Wrinkled Old Bag.

So, you know how sometimes you think about what you want to write about during the strangest times? Like, when you’re listening to your husband drone on about how the UFC is the fastest growing sport in the nation, or when you’re in the middle of a preference analysis or maybe using the ladies’ room for the tenth time in four hours due to your determination to achieve your maximum requirement of H2O by the time you leave the office? No? Well, play along with me folks, I’m in a tizzy here.

Anyway, I was thinking about writing about how, not only did the pregnancy and birth of the Beans leave me with a natty little scar, a plethora of stretch marks and twin skin*, but I’ve got a bit of a difficult time holding my bladder for any longer than, say ten minutes. If I have to go, I have to go. Now. One afternoon in Oklahoma, we were driving home from the city and we had a ways to go (who are we kidding, everywhere you drive from or to in OK is a “ways to go”) and I felt the urge. The sister and the husband thought it was funny and J proceeded to poke and prod me while I twisted in my seat for the best position in which to relieve some pressure. I’m not incontinent. I don’t think. I mean, there are those times where I have a really big sneeze and…oh never mind. I’m just saying, I was thinking about how I have to go when I have to go. And how the bathroom in our office building registers a temperature of approximately 32 degrees and the toilet seat, I’m sure, is a good ten degrees cooler. And how I had to get in and get out and get back to my office before I turned into an ice cube right there on the toilet.

So, I am thinking all these thoughts and quickly finish up and get out to wash my hands when a flash of something in the mirror caught my eye. I look close and don’t see anything. I lean in closer…there is a flake at my temple and a little pimple, whose presence I am sure will be known in a day or two, right next to it. That’s not it. Closer.

And then I see it. A big, thick, bold gray hair sticking straight up out of the middle of the top of my head. A GRAY HAIR!

Breathe.

Now, I’ve found two gray hairs before while I was in the hospital. I’ve heard that you can get them during a period of extreme stress (see Nancy’s hair on A Nightmare on Elm Street) and I was definitely under a lot of stress then. You can see the reason why here and here and, well, pretty much anywhere during that period. Ever since then, I’ve been vigilant. I’ve checked and checked again and in one and a half years I haven’t spotted another defecting follicle. Until today.

The offending hair didn’t last long, but I know that, where there is one, many more will inevitably follow. I shouldn’t complain. My mom starting getting gray hair in her twenties. J runs away when he sees me approach him wielding a pair of tweezers, shouting over his shoulder that it’s a useless battle as twice as many replace the ones that I deport.

I still get carded at some movie theaters and I can never get away with ordering an adult beverage without having to flash my driver’s license. I’ve been lucky enough to stave off wrinkles as well, but if you look at my hands, so similar to my mother’s, you will see my true age.

It has just been the last several months that it seems as if time has begun to catch up with my body. I’ve mentioned before the aches and pains as well as a bit of the slowing down that comes with the loss of youth. And now my hair has joined the revolt. I haven’t colored my hair since January 2005, when I discovered that I was pregnant with the Beans. Obviously, I’ve been living on borrowed time.

So, let’s recap. I am now the proud owner of: (1) stretch marks; (2) twin skin; (3) incontinence; (4) wrinkly hands; (5) arthritis; and (6) gray hair.

Lucky me.

They say that age is a state of mind. And so, lucky me, that despite all of these physical changes that I have experienced in the last few years, I may not feel young, but I still feel youthful.

Still. Any recommendations for wrinkle cream would be greatly appreciated.

*Twin skin…if you don’t know what it is, be happy that you don’t. If you’re curious, Google it and then immediately contribute to the Momma Bean Benevolent Fund For Removal of Twin Skin. You’ll be doing the whole world a favor.