I hope I become a wrinkly, old woman.

A popular topic in women’s magazines is aging. Because all women do it. All people do it. It’s something we can’t really control, no matter how many vitamins we eat or facelifts we get.

The earth rotates, the sun sets, and we age.

Aging happens. Old happens.

But people’s natural fear of death and the unknown has manifested itself into this culture of needing youth. Perpetual, never-ending youth. Skin-tightening face creams. Skin puffing lotions (because youth is chubby-cheeked). Line-filling serums.

Women’s magazines are peppered with them all.

So as I was sifting through the ads in a popular women’s magazine, I discovered an article on how to slow down the aging of your face.

I wasn’t that shocked.

Then I kept reading.

One piece of advice actually said to try and not show emotion with your face. Keep it still. All the time. When you speak, try not to smile or frown. Because smiling excessively over time will give you crows feet around your eyes and seems around your mouth.

That’s right. Don’t smile. That’s the advice of a reputable publication. I can’t make this stuff up.

I about lost my shit.

It might as well have said, “Be an emotionless android. You may bore your friends to an early grave, but they’ll die young and pretty and you’ll look younger and pretty. And that’s what’s really important.”

When I’m 60, I pray that I look like I’ve lived a happy life. I hope my eye wrinkles and face lines translate to the world that it’s been good to me. That I laugh often. That I love with all my heart and face.

I hope the lines run so deep that I have to clean inside the creases with Q-tips. I hope my grandkids imagine a highway system on my face. I hope my husband finds them as beautiful as he did my long-gone youth.

And I hope that I still feel this way in 40 years.

By the time I’m old enough, I may not win any senior citizen beauty pageants. But I honestly feel that au natural will make a comeback. Because everyone else will look like freaks with their excessive amounts of injections and plastic procedures. And there will be this rediscovered craving for something real.

And then I’ll be reading articles about reversal procedures and how dignified silver hair is.


Note: There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with cosmetic surgery. If removing the bump on your nose makes you feel sexy and alive, go for it. If the hair transplant gives you confidence you never had before, get it. Just don’t go overboard, okay? You’re prettier than you think you are. I swear.

Let’s go to yet another wedding.

I shall begin this post by saying that I love weddings. I really do.

I love the idea of people being in love for the rest of their lives. I love the idea of bringing all of your friends and family together for one big party. And I love the idea of over-sized baked goods.

In my short life, I’ve been in around 15 or so weddings. I’ve been a flower girl. A junior bridesmaid. A bridesmaid. A maid of honor. And a house party person. I’ve bought dress after dress. Worn panty hose (gasp!). Limped in horrid shoes. Puffed my sleeves. Tossed rose petals.

I’m an expert.

As for the number of weddings that I’ve simply attended, I’ve lost count. Seriously. The number surpasses 30 for sure. But that’s when I ran out of digits and miscellaneous body parts to count with.

Perhaps I should’ve tally-marked my ass, but I digress.

The wedding madness needs to stop. Please. I can’t afford it.

Within the last eight months alone, my lovely boyfriend and I’ve been to five weddings. That’s not including the ones we’ve missed.

That’s not including the two in the next month. Or the one I’m in come April.

Or another confirmed two that are creeping up before 2009 closes. With the very likely chance of at least three added in the meantime.

That’s not taking into consideration that for some of these weddings, we’ve bought plane tickets along with presents from Target. Or we’ve had to get cheap hotel rooms with dimly-lit bathrooms. Or we’ve driven for hours,repeatedly filling our tanks with gas (side note: we’re so glad it’s cheaper now) and consult ancient maps. We’ve rented cars. We’ve recycled outfits. We’ve skipped meals.

I can’t speak entirely for my significant other, but I’m damn near broke. I love you, friends, but I can’t buy any more toasters. Target stops you at some point.

“Another toaster, Miss Johnson?” the cashier asks.

I reluctantly shove my Visa his way. He stares at it. “Get out. Get out now. You’ve reached your toaster quota for the year.”

So in light of my recent wedding-induced, financial situation, I’m offering (read: begging) you to let me take some photos of you as a present. Engagement photos. Bridal portraits. Something. I’m a photographer again, you know.

This is where I’d post a link to my site, if only it were complete.

But there’s no time for that right now. I’ve got some bridal shower gifts to take care of. I wonder what state my Master Card is in?

I’m going to hug you now.

When I was a kid, my goodbyes were apparently lackluster.

So my mom’s best friend/my second mother once told me, “You don’t know how to hug.”

Then she wrapped her arms around me and held me firmly as she instructed me to do the same.

With a somewhat strained voice, she said, “This is how you hug. This is how you show love.”

I was around eight at the time. And now, 17 years later, I still find myself wondering if I’m hugging properly. If I’m hugging at appropriate times. If I look as awkward as I feel.

I was never a good hugger, as my mom’s friend so blatantly pointed out. Just being that close, being in an embrace always made me feel …

… self conscious? Inappropriate? Nah. Just awkward.

I had a joint birthday party with a friend when we turned 13. We were opening presents and she would hug the current gift giver after each present. So I felt obliged. I remember hugging a boy – Davie. He was a good friend, but I’d never hugged him. And as I did, I was electric. I’m hugging a boy! I thought.

Was it wrong? Was it okay? I wasn’t sure. But that’s when I realized that hugging wasn’t as freaky of a thing as I made it out to be.

So like most teens, I became totally okay with touching. Or so I let on. Inside, I still cringed and wondered if this pat on the back was an okay thing to do. Or if tugging on someone’s hand was too extreme. Or if saying hello by wrapping arms was something I could do without seeming creepy.

Even today, when one of my good friends touches my leg while making a point, I know my eyes grow large. Even for a tenth of a second. My spine straightens. My calves twitch. And then there’s the horrifying second of, “Did she see that?” or “Does he think I’m a spaz?”

If I ever touch anyone, there’s a very labored thought process that precedes the action. I’m going to say this and then I’m going to playfully push this person’s arm. Okay, saying the phrase and going for the push … No one looks freaked out. Success!

I can’t help it. When it comes to being physical, I’ll always feel a little autistic. Perhaps I am.

This blog sort of deals with lady stuff. Men, you’ve been warned.

Every month in a not-pregnant woman’s life, her guts (violently) reaffirm that there’s still no reproduction going on. For the purposes of blogging, we shall refer to this as “lady time.”

Lady time often closely follows some sort of homicidal hormone imbalance and possibly blinding abdominal pain. Or back pain. Or crazy, swollen porno boobies. Or tendon and ligament oddness.

Yes, tendons and ligaments. Because the shift in hormones actually softens these little connectors so bones can spread and accommodate growing infants.

So imagine for a moment that you usually get such rubbery joints before and during lady time that you fear walking.

And now add the fact that one of your ligaments (a big one) is now artificially constructed from one of your tendons.

HOLY MACARONI!

Forget the guts making their usual, loud announcement. I know lady time is coming because my freaking knee screams like a spoiled toddler being denied a second popsicle. It shrieks into a dozen bullhorns arranged microphone to speaker to microphone to speaker. And then that’s aimed at another microphone wired to 30 amplifiers.

It’s blasted from an iPod through the speakers of the third-year-in-a-row winner of the Loudest Car Stereo in the U.S.

It groans so loud, people walking outside my current office turn to their companions and say, “Did you hear that?”

“Sounds like it’s lady time for someone.”

Its shrieks attract ally cats.

It summons demons from Hell.

And it frickin-frackin hurts.

And the real shit thing? Going through my calendars from the past (yes, I keep a calendar of lady activity – all ladies should), lady time might be the reason my ACL snapped in the first place.

Consider me envious of the penis.

Where did it go?

The woman grabbed a cereal bar and raced out the door. She dug around in her purse as she approached her car.

Where was that-

She stopped mid-stride and held the bag wide open. She searched first with her eyes. Then again with her hands. Then with a fierce combination of both.

It was missing.

Maybe it's in the apartment.

She raced back into the apartment, threw her bag onto the counter, and thought hard.

Where could it be?

Ah hah! The bathroom.

She ran into the bathroom. Toothbrush. Face care products. Sink. No, the item she sought wasn't in the bathroom.

Perhaps it's under the bed.

She dropped to the ground and peered behind the bed skirt. Nothing except for an old fashion magazine.

Certainly I didn't lose-

She ran into the kitchen. Maybe she had left it on the counter next to her empty coffee mug.

Or maybe it got stuck between the cushions of the couch.

Or under the coffee table.

No. No. And negative.

I should look in my car. Maybe it's been there the entire time.

So she searched under the seats, in the trunk, and under the mats.

It's lost, she thought. I've lost it.

I've lost my job.

...

After a week of searching all around town, she stumbled upon a small one.

This'll do for now.

And she was okay.

I believe in Harvey Dent.

Whether you're black, white, red, blue, or any other color of the rainbow-

Whether you're left, right, stuck in the middle, or evenly blended-

Whether you're young, old, mid-life, full of life or barely living-

You have to admit that for various reasons, tonight was damn cool.

We have all witnessed history before. In fact, most of us have witnessed a large chunk of history in the last few decades.

Some catastrophic history. Some impressive history. Some hopeful history.

But today, today the history was really cool.

People who've never voted actually voted.* People who never cared about politics actually cared.* People who felt they had no voice found theirs.*

And it's so cool.

So whether you're feeling blue because you're red, or you're feeling blue because that's how you voted (or you're blue because you're neither red nor blue), be happy that you saw some good happen today.

And how cool is that?


*Including me.