A Different Kind of Age Spot.

There are quite a few downsides to getting older, and I have to apologize for my self-obsession over the next little while. It's going to get worse until I actually hit thirty and then can stop letting the occasion envelop me as though Death were giving me a big hug and saying, "See you soon!"

I know - thirty is not that bad. If fifty is the new thirty, then thirty must be the new puberty. Maybe my pituitary gland will kick it into high gear and I can do away with those padded bras! And hey, it could actually only be that a third of my life is behind me. Oh my gosh. A third!

The wrinkles started to set in a while ago, and I think I'm okay with those because they mostly just mean that I've enjoyed some sunny days and laughed a lot.

Constipation isn't such a welcome thing. IBS and colitis run in my family so I figured I would eventually be plagued with either eternal diarrhea or blockages worse than rush hour traffic in L.A. Even with my refusal to go the Metamucil route, I think I'm better off with the constipation because the other option could be a lot messier.

I found a gray hair the other day and was naive enough to assume it was the only one. Upon further inspection, I found an entire crop of them thriving under the stress of four male children and one husband who sometimes acts like a child. (But don't they all occasionally?) So I hit the head with a bottle of mahogany dye and now I will have to keep up the ritual until I keel over or figure out how to go from dark brown to salt and pepper without that horrid growing out phase.

But the worst of my ailments caught my eye a day or so ago when I had stripped to get in the shower and caught sight of a portion of my back in the mirror. I swear there are about ten moles there that didn't exist a year ago. Is that normal? I was horrified and wondered how long they'd been there making my back look like a connect the dot page in a coloring book. I wanted to ask Andrew if they'd popped up recently or if they'd been there all along and I just hadn't noticed them, but who wants to draw their husband's attention to those kinds of things?

"Honey, is my back a grotesque farm of newly sprouted moles?"

"No, Babe, those things have been giving my gag reflex a workout for years now."

"Oh, good to know!"

Yeah. I think I'll just keep playing dumb and be grateful that none of these things have cropped up on my face. Yet.