Every morning this week, upon waking – one song has been playing continuously in my head – The Imperial March from Star Wars. You know, Darth Vader’s theme. Yeah, that’s the one. The song of impending doom. As I get closer and closer to the Big One, my subconscious feels the need to keep the dread flowing. Well, tomorrow is the big day. I’ve no place to run, resistance is futile and denial is useless. Unlike Joan Rivers, I haven’t the cash to hide from my age with the assistance of modification specialists and miracle drugs. I assume that 40, much like vampirism and zombification, happens overnight and one awakes the next morning deep within the grips of the affliction. To further heighten my fears, today’s horoscope said that great and epic changes were in store over the next few weeks. (Yes, I read my horoscope, don’t judge.) In light of this, here, in no particular order, is what I expect to occur tomorrow morning as I awake as a geriatric:
I will suddenly have an overwhelming need for bran each morning. (Wait, that already happened. Strike that.)
I will need to stock my work bag with an unlimited supply of Poise Pads and Depends in the event that I am overtaken by a fit of laughter and wee myself.
I will adapt polyester as the fabric of my life as it easily hides the stains from the Jello I dribble into my lap at mealtime and needs no ironing. It will be imperative that I avoid ironing as I will most certainly forget to unplug the iron upon leaving the house and burn down my entire domicile leaving my family homeless and with a young child, we will be turned away from most adult living communities. Polyester it shall be.
I will walk into another room and forget why. (Check.)
I will forgo fashion in lieu of sensible shoes. (Check)
I will read the obituaries - daily. (Check.)
I will wake-up at the ass-crack of dawn regardless of it being a work day or weekend. (Check)
I will complain about young girls dressing like whores and boys looking like thugs. (Check)
I will no longer find humor in fart jokes or profanity from young children. (Unimaginable)
I will suddenly understand Rick Santorum. (If this occurs, I’ve given the Turk permission to pull the plug.)
I will lose all tolerance for mankind’s stupid choices and will feel an uncontrollable need to provide my own true and correct opinion to all within earshot at a thunderous volume and in a condescending tone. (Ok, that might have already happened as well…I mean, if we’re going with full- disclosure and all…but I’m guessing it will get worse)
I will need afternoon naps and if my needs are not met in a timely fashion, I will simply fall into a deep, snoring slumber in the midst of any number of total strangers without the slightest bit of self-conscious.
I will need to begin accessorizing my ensembles with those little green pine tree air fresheners as I read somewhere that old people have issues with spontaneous farts. Being the parent of a 3.5 year old, I’m not certain that this issue is limited to the elderly, but best to be prepared regardless.
I will believe that $5 is an enormous sum to bestow upon a child via a birthday card and in return, I will expect a large and gushy kiss given much against said child’s will.
I will need to eat dinner at 5:00. (Again, this seems to also hold true when in possession of a toddler so it will be tough to judge if this is a result of aging or not.)
I will be capable of brushing my teeth without opening my mouth, because I store them in a jar beside my bed.
I will open a retirement account instead of using the Mayan Prophecy of the world ending as my retirement plan.
I will no long find humor in Yo Gaba Gaba and will suddenly be incredibly offended by Muno, the one-eye, giant phallus, dancing and singing across my television. (In event of this – see Rick Santorum clause)
I will have an overwhelming love of Lawrence Welk and I will be engulfed with an intense desire to restock my Itunes and Spotify accounts with Big Band music rather than hipster tunes and heavy metal.
I will find floral patterns attractive, again this may just be another way to camoflogue the afore mentioned Jello stains but reguardless, it will be a life choice.
I will begin emitting an overpowering odor that is something of a mix between lilacs, rosebuds and Ben Gay.
I will begin watching televised golf.
I will suddenly understand pinochle.
Horrifying? Perhaps. Disturbing? Yes. However, I am allowing myself to believe that I will have no memory of my previous life when the age sets in tomorrow morning. So today I shall live it up – wearing heels and natural fabrics in light colors, guffawing at fart jokes, listening to Metallica at full volume and dancing to Yo Gabba Gabba for tomorrow, the End shall come.