The other day, in a rush to get ready for work, I found myself squeezing into a size "0" pants (from 9 years ago) when I am now a size 4 (keep in mind I am very short), and covering it with a long maternity-like tunic - praying that a gust of wind would not blow the tunic up, exposing my Pop-N-Fresh Dough stomach. Imagine if you well, taking 10 lbs of sausage and stuffing it into a casing made for one Farmer's John breakfast sausage link and you'll get a visual of me getting dressed that day. Those pants were about 75 times tighter then the black number Olivia Newton John was wearing during the final scene in Grease. I'm pretty sure there might now be some internal bleeding, or at least some damage to my inner organs.
I now find myself getting up at least once in the middle of every night with an uncontrollable urge to urinate. As I shuffle to the bathroom like an 87 year-old man with prostrate issues, I have to wonder how it is possible for my entire body to get bigger by the minute, while my bladder miraculously seems to shrink day by day?
How is it possible that I can have a raging case of PMS (one which makes Janice Dickinson look like a tame kitten) and simultaneously have pre-menopausal hot flashes that wake me up in the night and render me looking like I am halfway through the Boston marathon? That is so not fair.
I have three sharp whiskers that are playing "whack a mole" on my chin. The moment I pluck one out, another appears the next day. That one immediately gets plucked and the third (and darkest whisker of the bunch) rears its ugly head. By the time #3 is plucked, number #1 is back in action. I can't win.
Also this week, a stranger called me "Ma'am", and my daughter asked me why my hands were so "veiny". I've also noticed that my interest in watching MTV and VH1 reality shows has waned considerably over the past year, while my desire to watch a new Dateline murder mystery has never been stronger - a true sign of aging. Son of a bitch.