It's all fun and games until you start to lose your eyesight...

I turned 40 this summer, an age at which as a young child I had prognosticated I'd be dead but thankfully I turned out to be as bad at fortune telling as I was good at drinking. Somehow, through a Vodka-induced haze of child-rearing years, I finally reached that milestone birthday and it's given me quite a bit to ponder recently.

There's much to be said about the aging process... some good, some bad, and some downright ugly. Joe, who is older, reached his four-oh 9 years ago, which I took very well--although why wouldn't I, considering I was only 31 at the time. He made it look easy but what I've found in the 9 years since is that there is nothing easy about aging.

I read that aging is listed as the leading cause of "suffering, disease and death" in Western Civilization, but why only here? I've just pulled up the world map to see if I could get some sort of clue and all I've found so far for probable causes of death in the Eastern world are ninja's, mustard gas, overcrowding and HOLY SHIT there are a LOT of islands!! I never knew how many islands there are in the world! I never realized that Russia was so big, either. Wait... what was I saying?

I do that a lot now days which I suppose is one of the 'bads' of aging.

Another bad is the failing eyesight. Joe, being a solid 20/20 all his life didn't face the problem of his arms being too short until after his 45th birthday. I've been a solid 20/2000 since birth and suddenly I need bifocals. Mine I can live with, but damn it, who's going to pluck my chin-hairs when even Joe's cheaters and magnifying glass are not adequate for close-up work?

Suddenly everything is shriveling and falling at an alarming rate... everything except my uterus which keeps reminding me several days per month that it's still fully functioning if I actually wanted to have another child. Since I don't, it's just the empty box the kids came in and other than serving as an occasional play-thing for Joe, it pretty much just hangs around reminding me of the ever-rapid passage of time and the fact that women are stubborn bitches who just can't leave the damn apples alone when we want one.

That is the one good thing about the big four-oh, though. After 20 years of diaper changing, nap times, school lunches, homework and groundings, my days of child-rearing are all but over. There are only two children left at home now and only one still in High School. The house is finally peaceful and quiet except when I put on one of Joe's button-up dress shirts and a pair of his tighty-whities and create my own special version old time rock and roll. It kind of freaks Brent out but I've decided the amount of clothes I'm required to wear in my own house should be directly commensurate with the amount of rent he pays so until he starts to fork over the pork, I'm going nudie whenever I want.

Worst of all, I miss my days of youthful abandon. I miss trendy fashions and buying clothes off the rack in single-digit sizes. I want to wear shorts that say "Juicy" and "Baby doll" instead of "slightly irregular" and "as is." I want to wear thongs that don't completely disappear when I pull them up and bras that are only there to be aesthetically pleasing instead of pitifully (and unsuccessfully) attempting to raise the dead.

My mom has decided she's never going to become old and decrepit, will never allow her body to succumb to uselessness and whither away in a nursing home. Her plan is to live life as busy as possible, never slowing down til her last day on earth whereupon she plans to drop like a sack of potatoes.

And that, my aging friends, is probably about the best we can ever hope for.