The highs and lows of parenting and real estate.

38 is…

A constant battle between violently removing hair from certain places, and gluing, drawing it on, or chemically inducing it to grow in on others.

Occasionally asking myself just exactly what arrogance led me to believe, in my 20s, I was capable of bringing three (not just one or two, but three) children into the world without totally fucking them up. Like really; who do I think I am? What exactly was the plan for success here???

Still not making my bed.

Making a special trip to ULTA to buy dark brown hair spray to cover my aggressively grey roots between dye jobs, but continuing to shop in the Junior section at Target.

Being horrified about how close 38 is to 40, while simultaneously being aware in about 20 seconds I’m going to be 48, staring 50 in the eye, and wishing I could go back to 38 going on 40.

Realizing my stomach won’t ever be flat. The potential for that option has passed.

Giving fewer fucks. But still some.

Worrying more about getting injured that being dead.

Knowing that with selfies, it’s all angle and lighting; not just that everyone is prettier than me.

Peeing a little bit when I sneeze.

Not ready yet (if ever) to not have my parents for counsel on difficult decisions and situations.

Done saying “I’m too old to try that”, because fuck that noise.


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