But then it hits me. That voice of reality, which seems to be a young black girl for some reason, says "Giiiirrrrrlll, you ain't 25 no more. You are 37, post triplets, and in clothes with cat hair and toddler snot on your shoulders." Ugh. Might as well punch me in the stomach. I deflate, I try to manage the mess a little bit, stomach still sucked in, pull hair across face, put purse on mucus covered shoulder to disguise. But it's amazing how easily I forget! And the funny thing is that when I was 25 I couldn't wait to be 30. Apparently my brain got stuck back there though. I'm continually amazed to find lines on my face and, when the hair dye starts to fade, grey hairs prolific in my scalp!
I know that a lot of women love their 50s, at least according to Oprah, and I'm wondering does one's brain finally catch on to the age you are at that point? Because as long as my brain keeps thinking I'm 25 I'm going to keep being disappointed when I look down at the truth as I'm walking down the street. Or in the windows of the shops I'm passing. Which used to be a fun thing to do, see how cute I look walking by in my new miniskirt outfit and heels. Good gracious, no miniskirts now. No sirree. If I happen to turn into one of those ladies who tries to dress 25 despite my age? Please, I admonish you all to slap me. I know it might make me cry, but it's better than looking like an ass.
