How we know we’re getting old

The father of my son called me the other day and told me this hilarious story. So he was at the gas station/diner/liquor store early in the morning one day — he travels a lot for work so probably gas station — and this young chick in her early 20s wearing a tiny little mini skirt and looking like she’d been up all night drinking and partying starts chatting him up asking about his tattoos and stuff. And he’s thinking, hey, yeah, I’ve still got it…rock on when she asks him if he has any sons.

Um yeah

Can I have their number?

Yeah, well, he’s 14

Yeah, can I have his number?

Uh, no…he’s fourteen.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him our child was 15. Though to be fair, he couldn’t been 14 when the event actually occurred.

My son’s father is charismatic — he could always talk to the ladies, so I don’t doubt that this little young thing saw potential in him as a sire of fine young sons she’d like to meet. But you know you’re getting old when you cease to have potential as a mate, but the fruit of your loins sure looks interesting.

And he’s not the only one getting older. It’s fascinating to me to see how my body is changing — all these years, I foolishly thought I was safe from all the bad things that happen to women’s bodies as they get older, but gosh, was I wrong. This last year has been especially enlightening in this regard. Weight that I used to drop easily is much more tenacious. And exercise which I never used to get enough of — is becoming more and more of a pain in the butt to make time and energy for. My body is more tired, my feet ache, I want more sleep.

But for all that, I can’t complain about getting older. At least no one’s asking me for my daughters’ phone numbers yet ;)

Leave a Reply