When Your Body is Having a Mid Life Crisis

Come  close and huddle in, because this one is, how shall we say….one of my “less delicate” posts.

I recently turned 37.

On the one hand, life is beautiful. I have a husband who’s loved me well for 16 years and he knows the exact movie quote that will communicate his feelings to me in any given situation.

I have two healthy, spunky kids who fill me up and empty me clear out 10 100 times in a day.

I have a local community of friends, a dream I’m working towards, and Jesus by my side.

Great. Grand. Wonderful.

Nothing to complain about here.

Unless you count the seriously WHACK things that are starting to happen to my late-30’s body. 

Things are changing y’all, and they’re changing fast.

5 years ago my sister informed me that I needed to own one of those mirrors that sit on your bathroom counter. You know, those really big, magnifying mirrors with a daylight lamp?

The things I’m beginning to see in that mirror are very frightening.

For starters, those soft, little hairs that grow in the indiscernible space where your chin meets your neck. You know the ones. Don’t act like you don’t.

Those hairs used to be harmless. They used to be soft, blonde, and just blended into their surrounding area undetected.

Oh, but not anymore.

Now those hairs grow about 1/2 an inch too long and dance in the sunlight screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!”

Guys, what is up with those hairs?!

The only time they’re visible is when you’re in the car or under the harsh fluorescent lighting of a Target fitting room, but never when you’re in the safety of your own home and tweezer-adjacent.

It’s nigh on impossible to get a good angle for plucking those hairs, too. You’re gonna need to call in some backup. Like a sister, a best friend, or your small child, but only if they can be trusted to keep their mouth shut the sinister things they’ve seen under your chin.

See!☝?Tina gets it.

Although, when you’re Tina Fey you could grow a full beard and fully get away with it so I’m not even sure why she’s bothering.

Adding insult to injury, the hair on top of my head, the only place where it is truly welcome, seems to be rapidly thinning. I’ve never had thick hair, but now I’m reduced to what my friend Mel, refers to as “toddler hair”.

It’s just limp and static-y, and no matter how I try to style it I just look like a kid who’s played on the playground for too long.

Like, really? Really mid-30’s body? You’re gonna play me like that? If you’re going to sprout weird hairs at least let them be on my head.

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We’re not here to talk about the forehead wrinkles, or the weird eye skin, or the slower metabolism, because there’s no real shock there. I mean, we don’t LIKE any of it, but it’s only to be expected.

I said goodbye to my youthful metabolism a long time ago. I’m fairly certain it’s taking a vacation and may never return. It’s run off with My Children’s Naps who no longer call or send flowers, and they’re both on a beach somewhere by now, drinking a mai tai, and laughing at my plight.

Its fine. 

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We ARE going to talk about the other stuff. The stuff that no one tells you.

Like your height will shrink and your feet will grow.

I went in for a physical last month and they informed me that I have indeed, SHRUNK. I am 5’5. I’ve always been 5’5.

Except apparently now I’m not.

Now I’m just plain old 5’4 and feeling very robbed.

In fact, I don’t care for this information at all and I don’t receive it.

Adversely, your feet may begin growing at a hobbit’s pace (by that I mean, they’ll be big like a hobbit, not move at a hobbit’s pace, which could be fast or slow- I don’t really know, because I slept through most of the Lord of the Rings movies).

I always had dainty little 5.5 sized feet. Then they grew to a size 6. Now I’m a 6.5 or 7 depending on the shoe. I don’t care so much what size my feet are, I’m just a little weirded out that they’re growing at such an alarming pace.

If I keep this up with the weird hairs and the feet I really will look like a hobbit by the time I’m 45. Can’t dwell on that one too long though, because I’ve got bigger problems now.

Like Post-Shower-Sweats.

I used to be a cold blooded person. I used to be one of those girls that could walk around all delicate and shivery, pulling my sweater around me and snuggling up next to my husband who would shield me from “the cold”. I used to sweat only when I was nervous or when I was working out.

Now there is no “cold.” Now my body has an internal thermostat that is always set on a level somewhere between “Face Melter” and “Raging Inferno”.

Now I sweat just because it’s Tuesday.

I sweat when I sleep. I sweat when the sun hits the side of my face in the car. I sweat when I think about sweating. I sweat when I get embarrassed. I sweat when I’m surprised. I sweat when I’m hungry. I basically sweat every 5 minutes no matter what the conditions.

And not just armpit sweat.

Now we’ve got boob sweat, upper lip sweat, lower back sweat, and when things get really bad, stomach sweat.

But worst of all these are the post-shower sweats. There’s nothing worse than getting out of a nice warm shower, attempting to put on your makeup, and having to stop and fan yourself in front of an open window in 20 degree weather because you are sweating for no good reason. 

I don’t understand this phenomenon. Is this just some kind of unnecessary training for menopause?

Lastly, we’ve got the cropping up of weird food allergies.

My friend Janna woke up one day to find herself allergic to everything from eggs, to garlic, to beef. Just out of the blue, she had to say goodbye to some of her favorite foods or suffer the consequences.

I recently became allergic to 90% of all fruits. One day I’m eating blueberries like it’s my job and the next day if I so much as touch one to my lips I swell up like Martin Short in Pure Luck when he gets stung by that bee.

I can now only eat the fruits you peel before you eat them- so basically none of the fun ones. I guess my late-30’s body decided it’s had enough of the good fruits. We’ll just stick to the dull flavors for the next 50 years or so.

I guess it could be worse. I could be allergic to burritos.

If that day ever comes, you can find me jumping off a cliff somewhere.

I’m feeling a little vulnerable here and my body is having a mid-life crisis, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go put on some mom-jeans, a mock-turtleneck/vest combo, and just embrace the process.