Struggles

Like Fine Wine

Getting older is fun in terms of the increasing amount of “wtf” moments. Like the slow insidious creep of age spots on your face so gradual that you don’t take notice until one day, as you gaze in the mirror and it dawns on you, “Wtf?! How did my face morph into a connect-the-dots game board?” Or like when you’re nonchalantly brushing your dark hair and notice in horror, “Wtf?! How did so many grey hairs invade my scalp? Aliens!” Or like when you nurse a grueling hangover the morning after a night of debauchery, and recount, “Wait, wtf?! I had like only two drinks and they weren’t even shots.” Or when said night of gleeful debauchery consists of a spontaneous trip to the local market or staying up past your bedtime of 9pm, or heaven forbid, both, and you ponder, “Wtf?! How did I go from clubbing til 2am to being giddy at a trip to Trader Joe or Target?” Or when your scale rudely informs you that you can not maintain the same weight while mindlessly eating the same foods like in your younger days, leading you to curse, “Wtf, metabolism?!” 
Don’t get me wrong, getting older does have its perks (this would not include your breasts for “perky” and “breasts” don’t go hand in hand as you age) – you grow wiser, your life (hopefully) more stable, and you give a fuck a lot less about what other people think. 

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