About a year ago, Mr. KK and I splurged on a new bed. We finally got to the point where we were tired of waking up each morning like we were in crippling pain (which we were) and not being able to stand up straight.
After much research – and recommendations and reviews from friends – we landed on a Sleep Number bed. We each have our “number” that we can independently set on our phones to give us the best night sleep. Not only do we no longer dread having incessant back pain and getting up in the mornings, we can’t wait to go to bed at night. Plus, we are now in a healthy competition to see who gets a better sleep score (9/10 times it’s him).
Even though we’ve gotten our sleeping and backs on track, that didn’t stop old age from creeping in. While some things tend to be harder when you get older – understanding technology, seeing, leaving the house after 7pm – the one thing that continually gets easier is the frequency that you can pull a muscle.
Here are all the ways I’ve pulled a muscle this year:
Sneezing
Putting on perfume
Turning over in bed
Coughing
Putting on my seatbelt
Unbuckling my seatbelt
Breathing
Picking up a grocery bag
Putting away groceries
Picking up the dog
Sleeping
Stepping over the dog gate
Putting on underwear
Blowdrying my hair
Inside, I don’t feel old. But man, is my body trying to tell a different story!
So far no muscles were pulled in writing this blog.
The first time I was ma’amed, I was in my 30s, in a Starbucks in Westport, Connecticut. It was the afternoon, and I had walked down with some coworkers for an afternoon pick-me-up during a new business pitch. The barista finished my order, handed my drink to me and said, “Here you go, ma’am.”
Um, excuse me?
I walked away in a daze. I had been ma’amed. If you worked at the Westport, Connecticut Starbuck downtown around 2005, you made a very big impression on me. And not in a good way.
Was I old enough to be a ma’am in my early thirties? Did I LOOK like a ma’am? I’m on the short side, so I often hear that I appear younger than I actually am. Did that barista ma’am everyone and I was just lumped in with the general public? Did I look like the general public??
I chalked it up to a severe misjudgement on the barista’s part.
Shortly after that scarring experience, I was a grocery store and the lovely cashier handed me my receipt with a sweet, “Here you go, Miss.” And all was right in the world again.
I knew I couldn’t hold onto my Miss-dom forever. There would be a time when it just wasn’t feasible anymore: my crow’s feet would be too visible; my gray hair would give me away; I had that look of someone who has lived half a century and wasn’t taking any bullshit.
And that time has come.
This past summer I was picking up Little Mister from camp. The slew of camp counselors this year looked like they were barely out of middle school, let alone old enough to be responsible for 10 year olds. On a particularly hot July day, I rolled up to the pick up line and a young man approached my car.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said to me, proud of his politeness.
Now, his parents should be proud of how cordial he was. And there is a chance I looked slightly haggard after a day of meetings. When Little Mister came out and jumped into the car, the counselor shut the backseat door and leaned in my open passenger window to give me a wave and a little “Have a nice day, ma’am!” before I zipped up my window and peeled out of the parking lot.
I had been ma’amed not once, but TWO times. In the span of 5 minutes!
What was happening? After that horrific episode at camp pick up, I started hearing it everywhere people were talking to me: the airport, restaurants, delivery people! I was being ma’amed left and right.
It seemed I had transitioned to ma’am territory, and there was no going back.
Middle Age. Grown Up. #Adulting. Whatever you call it, I’m in it.
You know that internet meme that goes around every so often that says something like, “I still think 1979 was 30 years ago”? That is me. Because how can 1979 be 40 something years ago when I’m still 29? (right?)
And I’m not only middle aged, I’m an “old mom” with a young kid. I easily have 5-10 years on other parents who have kids Little Mister’s age. We’re so old that we have friends who are sending their kids to college while we’re watching swim lessons. So not only do I feel old, I literally am old.
Middle age is a weird time. Part of me is all like, “Sure, I’ll have another martini!” while at the same time I’m thinking, “Man, I wish I was home in pajamas on the couch.”
I do believe you reach a certain age, and you become comfortable in your skin. You have confidence in who you’ve become and you embrace it. You don’t have time for bullshit, or for people who suck the life out of you.
In fact, your whole outlook on what is important and how you want to spend your time changes. For me, the biggest shift was in how I was spending my time.
On drinking: Young Me: Pre-gaming started at 7pm, goes out at 9pm, still drinking at midnight. Old Me: Prime party hours are now from 2pm-6pm, then water until bedtime.
Party animal: Young Me: Would stay out late, sleep for 4 hours, be up at 7am. Rallied and went out again that night. Old Me: Would have one drink past 9am, sleep for 3 hours, then up for an hour, then sleep for an hour, then be up at 5am for the day. Hung over for 2 days.
Working out: Young Me: High-impact aerobics, pops right off the ground. Old Me: Low impact yoga, does the “hand on the knee for balance” to stand up.
Saturday afternoon: Young Me: Excited to do nothing all day. Old Me: Excited to pick up the CSA and do weekly meal planning.
“How was your weekend?”: Young Me: “GREAT! I met up with friends, tried a new brunch spot, binged Gilmore Girls.” Old Me: “Productive. I did four loads of laundry, we cleaned out the basement, and I made a pot of soup for the week.”
When it’s 45 degrees out: Young Me: “Do you think we need to wear a coat out?” Old Me: “Are you crazy? It’s too cold to go out.”
Grocery shopping: Young Me: No list, grabs just what I need for the next 2 days. Old Me: List organized by the layout of the store, digital coupons clipped, reusable bags in tow.
One perk of Middle Age is that you’ve been there and you’ve likely done it all, and now you can focus on doing what you actually enjoy doing. I like this version of Old Me. I could do with less back pain, but other than that, I’m here for what comes next.
P.S. AARP, please stop sending me emails. I do not yet qualify for your services! Don’t rush me!
But then they also tell you – in a variety of ways – that no matter how young you feel, you are, in fact, OLD.
I remember the first time I was Ma’amed. I was awkwardly ordering at a Starbucks with their exclusive sizing language when the extremely young barista said, “Here’s your change, Ma’am.” The word rang in my ears. I silently repeated the word in different voices and tones in my head. I was far to young to be a Ma’am…wasn’t I?
Oh, but society is tricky! Just when you’re feeling good and young and NOT your age, whammo! It’s time for a medical test that “people your age” start to have. Or, if you’re a woman and you’re pregnant at age 35 or later, you are considered of “Advance Maternal Age” and quickly shuffled off to a “special” office with “expert” doctors and “personalized” care. You’re suddenly in a decade that is being called “[YOUR AGE] is the new [INSERT YOUNGER DECADE HERE]”.
Personally, while I know that time is passing, I still have a misconceived notion of how long ago things happened. This is me exactly:
I can’t be the only one who is time-challenged.
I have a headshot that I use that Mr. KK took of me over a decade ago that I still unabashedly use because 1. I love this photo of me and 2. In some weird way, I still think I look like this. (Sad, I know.) I feel like almost no time has passed, when in reality, a dozen years have gone by and our lives have changed so much (we had a kid, which contributed to me no longer looking as young and relaxed as I do in that photo), so perhaps I hang onto that photo because I wish I STILL looked like that. I also still have the blue scarf.
Interestingly, while my mind may still feel young(ish), my body hasn’t gotten the message because GOOD LORD why do so many things hurt? And when one thing starts to feel better (my back), something else starts to hurt (my shoulder). Speaking of shoulders, a few years back I was having so much shoulder pain I went to see a massage therapist who basically said, “You have frozen shoulder. It happens to women around your age.” Hmph!
Physical aging aside (eye sight, crawling out of bed every morning, constant nerve pain), I am aging out of “cool” social platforms. Case in point: TikTok. I just…can’t. I mean, I do, a bit, for my job. But personally, no thank you. I already have ZERO time in my life, and I imagine a constant stream of videos that never, ever stop would be such a time suck out of my life, that I would open TikTok on Tuesday, and before I knew it, it was Thursday afternoon and I haven’t slept or eaten, and Little Mister has lost 2 teeth.
I suppose in a few years, Little Mister will be my tie to all things social and cool. He’ll want to be on the latest social platform that is yet to be invented by some future 17 year old billionaire. I’ll have all the knowledge of cool parent phone spyware and be not only up on what he’s doing, but still somewhat cool. When we have dance parties now in our kitchen – and Little Mister asks me to “Please don’t sing” and “Do you have to dance like that?”, I like to tell him how much I’m looking forward to chaperoning his school dances and busting out with some signature moves while he and his friends look on. Fun fact: I will absolutely do this.
I will continue to use my out-of-date headshot (maybe even for my obituary?), and remain young mentally. Fashionably, I will age; I will wear what’s comfortable, even if everyone is hating on skinny jeans and I still have a pair I feel halfway decent in.
And I will still let myself think that 1980 was twenty years ago, and that me and millennials are “around the same age” because, well, why not?
Life of kk 