HOT FLASH: er, i mean NEWSflash.

warning to the readers of this blog:
this post gets wordy. and lengthy.
this post may contain explicit language.
or language deemed inappropriate by someone's dad.
there are no cute pictures or snazzy links in this one.
if you are male, or under the age of 35, you might rather spend your blog-perusing-time at a more youthful, snarky spot. and I will tend to ramble. a lot.
There. I want you to know that I've had three separate conversations about internal age this week. What, you may ask, the h$#% is internal age? Let me begin by telling you that when I was 14, anyone over 35 was O.L.D. I mean feet-rotting-in-the-shoes old. Then I matured to 18-ish and 21-ish, 22 and so on, and the bar creeped up a bit, and 36 became the new standard for EWww... How can you even feel pride at that age?

I don't have a very detailed memory. It's a gift I thank my cool dad for. It comes in handy sometimes, too. But I think it took me until I was about 36 myself [EWww!...] to realize that old really had nothing to do with age. My self-centered and somewhat vain outlook on life was a phase. A somewhat long phase, but let's look at it as developmental. Because isn't that what we do? Or at least isn't that what we're supposed to do? Develop, I mean. And I'm not even thinking about growing extra parts and bigger hips. Because that's not EVEN my favorite subject. I'm talking about the big picture, guys. I'm not admitting to being a shallow person, because I think there was substance right along. It's just that I look back at those ages and think man. why would anyone EVER want to go THERE again? Kind of like the teenage years. Except for the 20s. And some of the 30s. Cool while you're in them, but looking back, {shudder} it's just scary. Except I could put a whuppin' on spouseman in a wrestling match in my 20s. Don't you even doubt that.

But I digress. Back to the early 30's. It was sometime in that big window of time that I realized when people were occasionally asking my age, I had to stop and think about how old I really was?! Because my mouth would want to say 28 or 31 or something, and I'd become shockingly aware that the truth was, that I was 36. [GASP!] Already. But my core was screaming 33! I'm really just 33! Thief! because someone stole the last three years away. And then I'd take off my shoes and socks, and look at my feet, and wonder if it was happening to me. And not to veer off the path of this enlightening subject, but WHY, my friends, WHY. is there not something billboard-ish in life with the word m.e.n.o.p.a.u.s.e on it? Because I know for certain there have been way more than a few billboards with PLASTIC SURGERY and VIAGRA written on them. Let's just be dyslexic for a minute, and rearrange the letters in this oft-avoided menopause word: ~O men: PAUSE~. Would not that be something we'd then want to talk about? And I've been wanting to SHOUT! that word menopause! menopause! menopause! for about 10 years now! Only because nobody else does. And I'm kind of stubborn, or rebellious, or annoying like that. Because I'm not 29, people. Although my youthful looks and uber cool personality may have thrown a few of you off. I won't apologize for that. I WILL tell you, that my internal age does not match the real thing. I will also tell you, that the bar has flown way the heck away. I used to think the new 35 or 36 was like 65. Then it got to be way up in the 80's. And then I started to have really good friends who were 65-ish or in their 80's, and I decided to throw the bar out the window.

Let's just face it. I recognize that: we are who we are. The outside gets wrinkly and on the inside we're doing ads for the cosmetic and sunscreen giants. And I'm jumping on the bouncy HUGE trampoline of life in there. On the outside, my bladder protests, so I can't. But I am a trapeze artist mega-wonder inside. How old do you think Eleanor Roosevelt felt inside, anyway? I read this story today, about a darling old married couple, who passed away within 29 hours of each other, one was 89, the other 90. And I decided that (this is the news part) I want to live to be 89. And spouseman, (think majestic, rippling cape) if you don't mind, I'd like for you to shoot for 90. And let's plan an exit strategy. Whoever goes first must come back VERY quickly and retrieve the lingering partner. Okay? So that's my news. I've made the plan, and now I'm going to do my darndest to live it. Besides, I like the number 89. Even though I don't think I'll ever make it much past 34 on the inside. And if you must know, one of my secretive things that I like to do, is guess how old people feel on the inside. So how old are YOU in there, anyway?