My days of frying on the sand in a mixture of baby oil and iodine are certainly over. I don’t even call Hendry’s Beach “the Pit” anymore because hardly anyone knows what I’m talking about. Now I’m that lady in the hat and huge sunglasses that makes sure to bring water and snacks for the kids. Wow, I might actually be a grownup.
Here are some other signs:
My friends have stopped hooking up, then splitting up. Now they’re getting married and divorced. And sometimes they’re dating people half their age–and it’s legal.
The last time I went to Disneyland, my favorite rides were the ones that didn’t hurt my back.
I could have gone to high school with Barack Obama. He would have been a senior, but still, we could have gone to school together.
No matter how impossibly cute the shoes are, I won’t wear them for more than an hour if they hurt my feet.
I’ve actually started mailing in those rebate offers.
My friend Sandy has a daughter that graduated from college, and Sandy is younger than I am.
A $4 bottle of wine no longer tastes “just fine” to me.
At the gym the other day I saw an aerobics class that looked about my speed, then realized it was for seniors.
Not only have I stopped buying cereal for the toy prizes, I’ve started stocking up on Raisin Bran and Cheerios when it’s on sale.
Sometimes my idea of a fun Friday night out involves pizza, Scrabble, and not leaving the house.
I consider the speed limit more than “just a guideline.”
I call my doctor by his first name, I’ve seen him drunk, and I still trust him.
Sometimes I hear my mom’s voice coming out of my mouth (“Because I said so.”) and it only freaks me out a little, but every once in a while, I’ll look in the mirror and see my mom’s face and it freaks me out a lot.
There’s a lot more food in my refrigerator than beer.
Thinking about having sex in a car makes me fantasize about back injuries.
When Koss asked me the other day, I couldn’t remember how to make a cursive capital “T” since it’s not a part of my signature.
When my friends suddenly become very moody, I wonder if they’re pre-menopausal, rather than pregnant.
I left a concert early at the County Bowl this year because I was too stressed out about someone getting hurt in the mosh pit to enjoy the music.
When the phone rings, I always hope it’s not for me.
I finally know for sure that my secrets are safe with my friends because they can’t remember them either.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 15, 2008.