It was only a dream...

Yes, I turn 35 next month. And yes, it's freaking me out for many reasons.

Being my fabulous, estrogen-powered self, not all of those are rational. Okay, maybe none of them are. But shut up. I don't want to hear it.

I mean it. I don't want to hear it. And if you insist on telling me that it's not a very big deal, I may have to kick you in the shin with a stylishly pointy heel.

Twice.

But anyway, I digress. I hadn't been thinking about this much over the last few days, because I've been out having a lot of fun. Friday night, we took a family trip down to Joliet, ate lots of yummy-but-horrific-for-you-food, and watched my friend Joel's band play a fabulous gig. But this morning, I was laying in bed feeling guilty about the poor boy sandwich from Merichka's. Really, it's no wonder that when I lived there, I weighed over 50 pounds more than I do now. Too many opportunities to be fat, as it were.

So how do these random thoughts all pull together?

Simple. I was just laying on my couch, reading the news, when I came across this stupid ad:



For the record, I am 5'2". And I've been struggling to stay in that acceptable range for a few years, now. So....let me get this straight. All of a sudden, next month I can throw in the towel and say, "Meh - what's another ten pounds or so? You're 35 now. Nobody cares if you're a disgusting cow. Ice cream on the house!"

Just for shits and grins, I should starve myself like an Ethernopian kid and get down to 114 pounds (the same weight I was at about age 9). This may be the final motivational straw that makes me lose the last of those pounds and say, "Look! I'm running with scissors! I don't weigh enough!"

Doubt it will happen. According to all of the charts, I'm getting old now. I'll likely forget about this tomorrow while eating pie and yelling at the kids to get off my lawn.