I'm getting old. I know, I know ... everyone is thinking, "What?! Andrea, how is that even possible? You're a spry 28!" But I feel it comin'. The terrible march of time does not stop for any woman ... even a woman who is only in her upper mid-twenties.
Case in point #1: My eyes. I got glasses my senior year of high school, which some may think would put a crimp in my superior-senior ego. However, I was a Grade A nerd, so the glasses just exemplified that. I was down with glasses. I wore them in class and to drive, but I didn't need to wear them at home or when I shot photos (I hated the frames butting up against the viewfinder).
Fast forward four years. Seth and I were newlyweds, and I was shooting a wedding reception. I confided in Seth that my camera lens must not be working properly: I could get everyone NEARLY in focus, but not entirely. He suggested that I wear my glasses to shoot. I told him my eyesight didn't warrant that. But, considering the fact that it costs nothing to put glasses on but mucho dinero to ship a lens off to get fixed, I put them on. Magically, my lens was working! Since then, I always shoot pictures with my glasses on. (And my lens always works.)
Fast forward seven more years. Now I find that I have to wear my glasses when I'm reading at night. And when I watch TV at night. And when I'm on the computer in the morning. And when I'm grocery shopping during the day. And when I'm reading and eating breakfast in the morning ... which drives me crazy because (for some dumb reason) I HATE wearing glasses while I eat, but unless I put them on, I find myself squinting at Joel Stein's column and eating a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats.
Case in point #2: The rest of me. Back in the day, I played a lot of volleyball. I was on the school team. I was on the club team. After high school, I took a wallyball class, participated on several intramural volleyball and wallyball teams and played once a week during open gym time in the fieldhouse. But since getting married, teaching school, having babies and the like, I quit playing for many-a-year.
Until a few months ago when a beloved high school friend invited me to participate in her stake's volleyball nights. The first time I came home from our pickup volleyball game, I was SORE. So sore I couldn't go up and down the stairs without moaning. So sore it hurt to laugh. So sore I would have cried if I thought it wouldn't have hurt.
I'm happy to say that my body doesn't scream in pain after volleyball night any more. But the other night, I had to dive/kneel to receive a floating serve that had dropped suddenly. I landed hard on my right knee--the one I had injured in high school and had to have surgically repaired. After passing the ball, I knew my knee was going to hurt. And it did. Even though it didn't hinder my playing for the rest of the night, I was careful with that leg.
The next day, my knee just didn't feel right. I couldn't explain it. I knew I hadn't blown a ligament or torn cartilage like the last time I'd hurt it, because I could at least WALK. But I felt uneasy about it.
When I explained it to Seth, he had the answer: "You're getting old."
And ain't that the sad truth. Even though I feel like I finished high school yesterday, the kids currently attending Bonneville still had most their baby teeth when I graduated. They consider Green Day's "Time of Your Life"--a song that played pretty much nonstop on the radio throughout my high school experience and was featured on every slide show--to be an oldie.
So for now I'll wear my glasses. And I'll try to take care of myself while I'm being active (my knee is fine now, by the way). And I'll try to remember that I'm no longer a spring chicken.
As for you, you just wasted two minutes of your life reading about my aging woes. Those are two minutes you'll never get back. In the words of the ever-wise They Might Be Giants, "And now you're older still."