AARP Has Come Calling

I came home a couple of weeks ago I opened my mailbox and pulled out, well, the mail (shocker, I know). I sorted through the pile

• AT&T bill


• Crate & Barrel catalog


• Bed Bath & Beyond Coupon (YAY! I also then proceeded to search through the waste bin by the mailslots to find the discarded coupons. I mean really, who throws away COUPONS that NEVER go bad?!?!)


• People Magazine


• AARP Packet

Wait. What?

Yes, a whole packet asking if I would like to join the AARP community and subscribe to their magazine.

Thoughts flew through my brain on the elevator (as I hid the packet between the 10 Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and People magazine).

How did they get my name?

Why do they think that I'm old enough to be part of the retirement community?

I fell into a deep depression for about one minute, ranting and raving throughout my one bedroom apartment. Then I remembered - while I'm only 2 years away from turning 30, I'm 20 YEARS AWAY from turning 50!

Even so.

I promptly through the packet into the garbage and then swiftly tied up the trash bag and threw it down the shoot.

Out of site. Out of mind.

Living on the Dr. Seuss Farm

Cankles.

Muffin Top.

Bunions.

Crow's Feet.

Spider Veins.

It sounds like a I live on a Dr. Seuss farm.

Lately I feel like I've been inundated with stories about how to cure the above ailments.

The other day, as I daydreamed about a Baked & Wired cupcake and stared angrily at my boring lunch (Campbell's soup - again), the Today Show had a segment about "cankle lipo!"

On the plane last week, Self magazine informed me about how to rev up my metabolism. Turns out, you have nothing to worry about in your 20s, but once you hit 30 you better be hitting the gym. Hard. And counting calories. Often.

Good thing that Self magazine also had an article on the best way to pose in a picture to hide those pesky flaws. I studied that story and the accompanying image for about five minutes.

Because if I can't flaunt it, I better know how to fake it for the camera.

Guess who is turning 30?

Nary a wrinkle, and still eating like he's 21 years old, Pacman is celebrating his 30th birthday next year. In his honor, they've already created a zippo lighter and I'm sure we'll see a major PR blitz surrounding his foray into his third decade.

People - have you started planning for my big 3-0?? You've got a little less than two years to figure it out. I suggest you get started, lest I'm outshone by a yellow arcade icon.

Fading Into Nothingness...

Back in the day, when I was in my young 20's and single, I had stories. A whole lot of them. Stories that involved random acts of hooking up, stories that consisted of dates that would jump out of the bathroom naked and/or stripped for, storise that I tried to piece together the next day as I nursed a hang over.

So you can imagine, back then, this blog would have been a lot more exciting. There would have been drama. There would have been heartache. There would have been many embarrassing moments.

I've been struggling for the past couple of days - after long hours at the office and planning for my upcoming mini-vacation to Rhode Island - on what to write.

Hence my silence.

Getting older has meant... less excitement.

Which is good on one hand. I don't have it in me to stay out until 4am (even on a Saturday night) and juggle a plethora of crazy guys.

On the other hand... my life no longer provides great fodder for party conversations. My only update at the moment is that I've noticed a few more wrinkles around my eyes.

Apparently, my life no longer makes for exciting blog posts either.

For this, I am sorry.

The Self Esteem Factor

There are lots of UNglamorous things about getting older, but to be fair, there are a few truly AWESOME things that come with advanced age. One of them? Feeling comfortable in your own skin.

Sure, I still hate my curly hair. My eyes could be bigger. My butt rounder. My cheekbones higher. But I know that I will always hate these things. I've ACCEPTED that I will always hate them and have come to peace with the hate.

Unlike in middle school and high school and even college - I rarely stress about my looks, if I'm wearing this season's "it" outfit, if I'm part of the "cool crowd."

Do I still care about the zit that is currently perched on chin? Sure. Do I try to (unsuccessfully) cover it up? Of course. But do I spend hours stressing over it? Hardly.

Eye rolls, judgemental looks from passerbys, snubs by the male gender - they roll much more smoothly over my now thick skin.

Even the ridiculous comments made by my family don't faze me quite as much.

For example, back in the day, when I was 13 and my self esteem was probably a negative 25, I used to pose in front of my bedroom mirror. Very Next Top Model. One day I asked my mom, in a vulnerable, teen moment, I said, "Mom, do you think I'm pretty."

Her response: "Honey, I mean, you're no supermodel but..." She might have said something nice after the "but" but I can't remember, nor do I think I even heard it.

I mean, HELLO!?!? I'm her daughter. Aren't I supposed to look like supermodel even if I was gangly with frizzy hair and no boobs?!?!

To this day, I remind her of this and she (conveniently) says she has no memory of this conversation.

But now, when my mom says: "But Kimmie, you look 100 times better with straight hair," I get mad. But not AS mad.

I calmly, confidently, in a very self assured manner, blame my genetic flaws on her.

The Scariest Part of the Gym

It's not the boot camp class. Or the camel toe I get if I pull my spandex shorts up to high. It's not the sweat stains, or the germs on top of germs on top of the mat that I use to do my pushups and situps. Lately, the scariest part of the gym is when I have to input my age.

It used to take many finger punches to get to my age. Now it's about 3 or 5. I'm at 28 before my finger even gets warmed up! Sometimes I think about lying and putting in 21. But then I feel guilty. As if the treadmill is going to know and, in retailiation, speed up and cause me to trip and fly off the moving object.

So I never lie. It's too risk. And I now slowly punch the button to get to my actual age before I begin trying to jump start my ever-slowing metabolism.

The Average Age...

I have always been a late bloomer. My first kiss? Age 16. My first boyfriend? Age 18. My first marriage? Oh, wait...

Anyway, I decided to see how far below the curve I fell. Turns out, I am really really not normal. Not anywhere close to it.

The typical age an American...

• Loses their virginity, according to a worldwide Durex survey, is 17.3 years - I was 18 years old when I lost mine prom weekend (feel free to use the Virginity Calculator to help you determine the average age of when you should - or were supposed to - lose your virginity)


• Gets married is 26 years old for women and 27 years old for men


• Has their first child is 24.9 years old


• Buys their first home is 30 years old

Late bloomer status is fully embraced.