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I wake up to my alarm going off.
After a night of getting up to go pee THREE TIMES in between fits of dreams and semi-sleep, it’s time to start my day.
I stretch in my bed, and notice the first twinges of pain in my back.
Reluctantly I stand up to start my day. It’s like I’ve been hit by a truck, and I can feel the stiffness consuming my being.
My back doesn’t want to bend at first, and my legs feel like tree trunks that are rooted to the ground.
Moving around to get my joints loosened, I notice I’m making old man sounds.
“Ugh, uh, oooh.”
Nice. How long have I been doing THAT without realizing it?
I take my flannel pajama clad, nightgown wearing self into the hall, and realize how I must look. I’m a mess of bed head, and my hair is sticking out every which way like a baby orangutan.
I have on no makeup, not even the remenents from yesterday … because I couldn’t be bothered to put any on yesterday.
My oh-so-stylish thick slip-resistant socks are starting to come off my feet, but I’m not bothered enough to fix them.
At what point did I start not caring, I wonder as I stiffly walk to the kids room.
When I go to wake up my kids, my mom comes out of my mouth. “Don’t make me pull you out of bed. Get up. School day. Get up, get up, get up.”
When did I turn into my mom, I think as I hold my sore back, and walk into the kitchen.
I start a pot of coffee, and throw two ibuprofen down my throat for my stiff joints. I tear off a wad of paper towels while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew, and start to blow my nose. I stop, mid snot spew.
Am I Turning Into My Grandmother?
I can specifically remember my grandmother doing this every morning when I was little. The flannel nightgown, the socks, the grunty noises with movement, the ibuprofen, the coffee, even the snotty paper towel.
When did I turn into a grandma?
No, I’m not talking about an actual, biological grandma. I’m talking about the persona of a grandma. When did I start dressing and acting the part. Why the hell am I making old person noises when I bend over, stand up, or go to sit down.
When did it come to this?
I look down at my nightgown and socks. At what point did I become so complacent that comfort … hideous comfort … was more important than being presentably my age?
Looking at my stiff body in the mirror I wonder, At what point did I let myself go?
When did I decide that stiff joints and pain were more important than stretching and taking care of myself?
I know exactly when it happened, although it happened gradually.
I can sum it up with one word: Kids.
I have become lazy with myself, putting my kids’ every need before mine. While I’ve heard my whole life, This is what a good parent does, when did it become okay to loose myself in the process?
I make a vow to myself here and now.
The flannel PJs and thick socks are going into the back of the closet. Better yet, I am going to Marie Kondo the crap out of my old-lady clothes, and get them out of the house.
I will work on yoga, pilates, or even walking daily to stretch the soreness out of these joints.
I will start respecting myself. Instead of going out looking sloppy, I will put on mascara (at the least) and do my hair to make me feel better everyday. I’m going to get myself back!!
I don’t want to continue on the fast-track to the grandma assisted-living facility.
Who’s with me?