Updated: Jan. 25, 2016
Originally Published: July 20, 2015
As I step out of the shower, I’m taken aback by the figure looking back at me. Normally, the reflection I see is just a tiny human, barely 3 feet tall, brandishing snacks in front of my face while I try to dry off on the slippery bathroom floor. But this—this is something else entirely. The mirror is a bit foggy, yet the image is all too clear. Who is this stranger? Here I am, just three weeks shy of turning 39, and all I can think is who on earth decided that 39 is the new 29? If I had to wager, it was probably some 79-year-old man. Definitely a man in his 70s.
I vividly remember being 29. I can assure you that my body at that age didn’t resemble a couple of balloons engaged in a tug-of-war. I didn’t have to hoist them up to apply deodorant. Summoning courage, I lean in closer to the mirror and clear away some of the steam. Oh, my word—hair on my face? Seriously? Why do I need to pluck my own face? Sometimes I wish I were a chicken. Yep, a chicken! Don’t they stay smooth after you pluck all their feathers? I think they do, but I’ll have to check that later. I should jot that down on a Post-It note—wait, I need to start keeping those in the bathroom. I’ll just write it on toilet paper with my mascara.
Alright, counting them now—one, two, three, four, five chin hairs. Great, I might wake up tomorrow looking like a hermit. In sickness and in health? How about when your wife wakes up with a full beard through no fault of her own? Now that’s a fun scenario. Oh, one of these hairs is pitch black—which makes zero sense. I’ll just pluck those out and forget about it. And what is this? Grey hair? I swear I went to bed with my blonde locks, and now I’m sporting grey. Unbelievable.
And the lines on my face! I pull back my skin, then let it go, and repeat. I’m Irish, and I practically smeared sunscreen on like I was trying to make a buttered roll. I was the palest child in the neighborhood, and yet here I am with creases on my face. It’s probably all the smiling. Seriously, why was I so happy? What was with all the smiling? Bwahahaha. Stop laughing; you’re just going to create more wrinkles.
Oh, take a good look at your stomach, and the laughter will stop. What happened here? Right, two beautiful babies at 8 lbs. 6 oz. and 8 lbs. 10 oz. That explains it! They were worth every ounce. Yes, they truly were, but what kind of bathing suit am I going to wear this summer? My options are either one that barely covers my backside or a bear costume. Who designs these swimsuits anyway? Definitely men in their 70s. They say if you feel good in it, you can wear it, but those new styles that look like permanent wedgies are a far cry from comfort. Ugh, who cares? I’ll just have to search online for swimsuits suitable for almost 40-year-old moms. I bet the bear costume pops up!
I’m exhausted. Why am I so wiped out?
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you done yet? We want a snack and to work on a 600-piece puzzle. Oh, and we sort of overflowed the sink in the kitchen by accident. The dog is lying in the water.”
Right.
Okay, let’s tackle this. I do love my eyes. They’ve witnessed the birth of my children and the beauty of life itself. In 39 years, they’ve never missed a beat. So what if I don’t look 29? Thirty-nine is going to be amazing! It will be filled with new adventures.
“Mommy, look! We drew a rainbow on the wall with our new markers.”
“Mommy can see that, darling. I’m looking right at it.” Ugh.