Knock knock. Who's there? It's 40, bitch.

I’m turning 40 in one month and my body is falling to absolute shit. 

      
           I’d always heard that 40 was the magic number in hitting the wall but I guess I just never believed it was true.  I like to think of myself as being in “pretty good” shape.  This is not to say I’m an Olympian but I can at least walk more than 1 block without getting winded.  I go to the gym multiple times a week, do cardio, lift weights, eat *relatively* healthy (Doritos are ok, right?), take vitamins, all the stuff Doctor Oz tells me to do. You’d think that things would be staying intact on my body.  Not so.  Things are happening, my friends, and they ain’t good.

      
         About three months ago I was sitting talking to a friend while I had my legs crossed.  I looked down and noticed a couple of very pesky varicose veins on my shin threatening to pop out to say hello.  Sweet Mother Humpers!  I can see those two sonsabitches sitting there, just under the skin, waiting for November 12^th to make their big appearance.  I guess this should be no surprise, most of the women in my family have these bulgy veins in their legs, I just thought since I hadn’t seen them by now that I would avoid them.   Apparently not.  Welcome to the varicose club, sweetheart.  We wear support hose in here.

 In addition to the disgusting veins it seems my vision is failing now too!  What the hell.  Ever since I was a kid it was, “Just perfect, Kristin!” from the optometrist.  Now it’s, “Oh, wait, this isn’t looking good.  You mean you can’t see that?  These little letters down here?  Uh oh.”  Seems I have something known as presbyopia,  which is taken from the Greek word presbys meaning "old man" or "elder" but according to most medical glossaries it translates very simply into "old eyes".  Awesome.   Kristin “Old Eye” Leoncavallo.  That sounds about right. 

            I noticed the failing vision about three months ago.  I started holding things out farther from my face so that I could read them, like my grandma when she’s trying to read the back of her medication bottles.  So, now I have reading glasses, which actually isn’t too bad since I look wicked cute in them.  At least, this is what I'm telling myself......

               
        What else is wrong, Kristin, you whiny bitch?  Well, I’ll tell you.  I have thickening toenails.  What the heck is THAT!?  “You should meet my friend, Kristin.  She’s a good cook, can throw a Frisbee with both hands, and has ridiculously thick toenails. “Seriously, when I paint my toes now I have to spend 15 minutes filing the TOP of the nails to work down my elephant hooves.  Who ever heard of such a thing.  They never mentioned this in the welcome to 40 handbook.

             
          Let’s talk about my hair.  As a kid I always had really boring straight hair, which is why I started getting perms in high school (hey, it was the 80’s.)  I wanted that gigantic poof like Jaime Gertz in Less Than Zero, and every other movie from the late 80’s, early 90’s.  So cool.  Well I permed until the end of high school, then once in college I decided to grow it out, back to straight.  Apparently gigantic curly gelled-out hairdos were not cool anymore.  What would I do with those tubs of LA Looks?  Hey, we all have to change sometime. 

               
          So, I let it grow.  And grow, and grow and I think to myself, “Jeez, this perm is lasting FOREVER.  It just will not grow out!”  Wrong.  It was growing out, alright.  It was just growing out curly.   Sometime between 1988 and 1991 my hair Gertzed on it’s own.  Where were you four years ago, curls?  Just my luck, I’m always just one step behind the cool kids.

                 
          So, me and my curly hair did our best to get along.  Things changed for me when I bought a flat iron, however.  Life was good again, I could have straight hair like Rachel Green and Demi Moore!  Look at me!  I’m CURRENT!  I’m not even wearing leg warmers anymore!  (well, not where anyone can see me.)

               
           That old adage is true, you always want what you don’t have.  Have straight hair?  You want curly hair.  Have curly hair?  You want straight hair.  My five year old proves this every day, he’s got a million toys but he doesn’t want those.  He wants the neighbors toys, you know, the ones he CAN’T have.  Ahh well, what can you do. 

              
           Well, I’ve learned to live with the curls, although now I’m 39 and my hair just keeps getting bigger and bigger with each passing year.  The flat iron is having less and less effect on it.  It’s more of a flattened frizzy wave that I end up with.  Most time I just say screw it and leave it curly, trying to manage it the best I can. I figure before this decade ends I should have my full fledge afro.

              
            But the worst part about turning 40, at least to me, is that I can’t seem to tolerate sulfites anymore.  And you know what has sulfites in it?  WINE!  Ahhhhhh!  Just kill me now.  Seriously, take anything you want, JUST DON’T TAKE MY WINE! 

               
           This is something I noticed last month when I woke up one morning with a serious hangover.  I’d attended a friend’s wedding the night before and apparently drank waaaay more than I intended to drink.  Okay so maybe I did intend to, whatever.  I was out of the house, kid free, I cut loose.

                 
           The night was fun, but when I awoke in the morning, it was not so fun.  I was feeling really anxious and nervous, not at all what I was used to after drinking.  Headache?  Tiredness?  Uneasy stomach?  You betcha, but nervousness, flushing,  and anxiety?  No.   I thought that maybe I was just worried about something or just overly tired.  I never once thought that I was having some kind of weird reaction to my best friend, Vino.  Not possible.  I refused to think it.  

              
             So, the next week I tried again.  Yep, same thing.  Woke up, heart pounding, flushed, anxious, feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, and for any of you that have ever had a panic attack before I feel your pain.  It sucks.  Who knew my beloved wine would turn on me?  After all we’d been through together…..

So what now?  Am I supposed to drink BEER?  I DON’T THINK SO.  I am a lady, for shit’s sake, AND I LOVE TO DRINK WINE.  So now I don’t know what to do.  You’re probably thinking, “Kristin, you’re over reacting, just don’t drink wine, it’s not that big a deal.”  Well, you obviously don’t understand my relationship with this dark and delicious goddess.  What I mean to say is, uh, I don’t have a problem, I can quit anytime I want.  Whatever.  .........don’t judge me.

          This is really traumatic for me, this will mean a serious change in my life style.  Okay it’s not like I’m guzzling bottles of pinot every night, but I do enjoy a glass (or three) with dinner sometimes, and when I go out, wine is what I drink.  What do I do when I go out now?  Drink hard liquor?  I think I’d rather have anxiety hangovers as opposed to the projectile vomiting and headaches I get after booze.  You’re probably saying, “Well you don’t have to drink that much of it. “  and what I would say to you is, “Suck it.”

So what’s left?  Bathtub gin?  Rubbing alcohol?  Heroin?  I just don’t know.   

                
           According to the internet I can drink “organic” wine, which contains the lowest level of sulfites per measure. Hmm.  Well, I guess I’ve got to give it a shot, I’m not ready to throw in the towel with this relationship just yet, not after all we’ve been through together.

               
           So, 40 is a knock knock knocking on my door and in five weeks I’ll be answering… if I can get there with my limited vision, or see the door through my humongous afro, or pick up my feet with the four inch thick toenails.   At this rate I’ll be Quasi Moto by 45.  What’s in store for me next?  Arthritis?  Broken hip?  Leaky bowels? (I already pee a little when I laugh, thanks pregnancy).  Only time will tell….in the meantime I’ll just be over here, waiting, drinking a glass of chardonnay, and having a panic attack.