Momservation: I still have the six-pack abs of my teenage years. They’re just hidden underneath a koozie.
☺ ☺ ☺
I fully admit I’m 44. That’s not the issue here.
I’ve done the math. Plotted a graph. Created a timeline. Even sketched a Venn Diagram:
It just doesn’t add up:
How can my kids be in high school when I SWEAR TO GOD I WAS JUST THERE!
I have a theory though. I think our bodies age in dog years while our brains age in Giant Sequoia years and our eyeballs age somewhere in between.
When I look in the mirror, granted, I see someone who needs to get her roots dyed more frequently than she likes to admit and has to have a best friend promise that if I ever land in a coma at the hospital they’ll come before visiting hours and pluck all the random wild hairs that suddenly seem to grow like springtime poppies.
But those carefree days when my future was a blank page and I was busy filling it up with giggly best friend sleep-overs, cute boys, school dances and football games, great feats of athleticism, even better 80’s hair, sneaking out to dance clubs in the city, and convertible rides to Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk—I swear I could reach out and touch that ageless girl in the mirror.
The only thing that jerks me back to reality (besides my accumulation of chins), is hearing my kids groan, “Oh, Mom,” when I try to convince them that I once stood where they are now.