It ain't pretty.
Well, it's really not that bad, I guess, but you know how reality creeps in and smacks you in the face every once in a while? Well, that happened to me today.
It's rainy and cold here today so I decided to take my daily walk in the mall at lunchtime because I know when I get home tonight I'm going to get all cozy and not feel like going back in to town to go to the Wellness Center and walk. I still can't get over the fact that I live somewhere where I have to use the phrase "go back in to town." I've lived in town my whole life and now I'm living far enough out of city limits for hunters to be able to shoot poor Bullwinkle in the field across from my apartment. And our cracker jack police force could give a wit that I'm horrified by the fact that guns can legally be fired within earshot from my living room. And how do I know that? Well, I called them afer the first shot was fired and I saw those orange vest clad moose murderers high-five each other and jump for joy as the poor thing stumbled to its death. I don't think I really live that far out of town. How much sportsmanship is there to just pulling your pickup truck over on the side of the highway and pulling out your gun and blasting the poor thing? Shouldn't they have to put a little more effort into it? Apparently not, according to Caribou's finest. And apparently they can fire all the guns they want across from my apartment as long as it's hunting season. Good to know. Didn't seem to bother the old man who lives next door to me either. He looked at me like I had just landed a spaceship on his dog when I voiced my concern to him. His exact words were, "Well, it's hunting season." Yeah, OK. Point taken.
And speaking of points... back to mine.
So I walk through the food court and see three of my aunts sitting there together. Two are my father's sisters, and one is married to my mother's brother, so no blood relation really, but she's one of the few of my aunts that I actually like. One of my father's sisters is in the early stages of Alzheimer's and the other one is suffering from breast cancer. And my poor Aunt Phyllis--the one who I do not share genetics with--has had every kind of medical problem there is to be had. So I stop to talk and they fawn over me and tell me how pretty I am (which I know as family they are obligated to do) and one of them points out how I don't have any wrinkles yet. Then says, "How old are you now, dear? 45?"
Thank goodness it was the one with Alzheimer's or I may have taken that personally.
So I say, "Ummm, no, Aunt Juanita, actually I'm not even 40 yet." And my Aunt Phyllis, God love her, says, "Yes, Nita, Lisa's the baby of the family, remember? She's only 40."
"Oh, sure," my Aunt Nita says, "I remember. That's why she doesn't have wrinkles. I didn't have wrinkles at 40 either."
To which I wanted to scream, "I'm not 40! Stop saying 40! The next person who says 40 is going to get Tim Horton's hot coffee splashed in their face!" But I didn't. Instead, I examined my Aunt Juanita's and Aunt Winnie's faces--Aunt Winnie, who agreed that she didn't have wrinkles at 40 either--and suddenly saw what I'm going to look like in another 35, 40 years.
Trust me, I'm going to have wrinkles.
These are my father's sisters. I look a lot like my father and he looked a lot like his sisters. I saw my future today. Good Lord. I think I may change my position on Botox.