Squeak’s Squeals

Well, it’s official. I’m old. And the Grim Reaper didn’t pay me a visit in the night. I’ve survived to reach the first day of my next decade.

Last night, I witnessed the foreshadowing of the beginning of the end. A plague of locusts swarmed my living room - well, two locusts swarmed my living room, but close enough to a plague for me. And I was faced with the brutal realization that my birthday falls on garbage day this year. Time to pack me in a lawn and leaf bag and put me out to pasture.

Part of me has decided to be optimistic about it - start working out, quit smoking, make the next thirty more productive than the last. Another part of me wants to spend eternity in denial - none of this actually happened and I will be young forever. Another part is indifferent - same shit, different day. And the rest of me wants to scream, cry and go into hiding for the rest of my days - a shriveled, old hermit troll, hiding my wrinkled exterior from the eyes of the masses. No one told me turning thirty would cause my mind to split itself into thirty separate, crazy personalities - one for each year of psychosis I have thus far endured.

Eh, to hell with it. I’m old. I’m pruning as I type. My boobs stare at the floor. My hair is in a bun and I have a granny sweater. May as well go all the way - get myself a couple dozen cats, some velcro shoes, a cane and a pair of reading glasses. Now…. if I can just be patient enough to wait until the hump back forms and my hair becomes completely devoid of color…. THEN my transformation into Super Nerd Geezer will be complete! Muwahahaha!

I need to find myself a cape…..

Find more old crazy people at Humor-Blogs.com.

At this exact moment, I am less than two hours away from bidding adieu to my spent youth and waving a brave howdy to the next psychotic decade of my life.

I can feel the wrinkles deepening. I can feel the gray hair sprouting. I’m having chest pains. I’m short of breath. My feet look weird and I believe I’m developing a tumor somewhere, I just have to find it.

All my life, I have considered thirty (ow! Chest pains just typing that word! That evil, evil T-word!) to be extraordinarily old. And now, as I sit here - trembling and shriveling - on the cusp of my last, fleeting moments as a hip, cool twenty-something, I realize I was right.

Will I awake in the morning? Or will these be my final sad attempts at humor? Will old age take me in my sleep? Or will I rise in the dew of the dawn to find myself in orthopedic shoes and wielding a walker?

There is an actual reason the T-word has me so horribly freaked out, but I can’t explain it here. This is a humor blog. The tale behind the irrational fear is not a humor tale. And so, I think I will call it a night. We geezers need our rest. I should have been in bed HOURS ago. If I get overtired, I may fall while in a fog of exhaustion and shatter a hip. And, honestly, I shouldn’t be looking into hip replacements for at least another year!

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As I covered in yesterday’s spewing forth of pointless drivel, I will soon be breaching my next decade of life. As I spiral uncontrollably toward my own demise, I can’t help but wonder why no one told me about the female body phenomena which would inevitably begin at this point in my life. I know women can be horrid, conniving, back-stabbing psychopaths, but my own mother!? My own sisters!? My best friends!? No one, but NO ONE, filled me in on the parts of life for which I needed the most preparation. We’ll count them down backwards to build the suspense.

5. Granny Sweaters. It seems, for whatever reason, as a woman ages, she develops a fashion block by which granny sweaters become the ultimate in everyday wear. I actually ASKED for a granny sweater for Christmas last year. Why? Because my OLD one had worn through in several places and I was getting strange looks donning it at the grocery store. They are warm, which is wonderful now that my body seems to no longer produce its own heat. And since I can’t always wrap myself in a blanket to venture outside, my granny sweater is a miracle worker.

4. Skin Tabs. You know…. weird little bits of flesh that simply give up on life and decide to ban together to form a bizarre protrusion from random parts of your anatomy. Arms, chest, neck, legs… no part of your body will be safe. They are everywhere and the only way to get rid of them is to cut them off, twist them off or otherwise mutilate yourself to exterminate these vermin. Which in turn leaves you with lovely little scabs which later turn to tiny little scars. And they bleed - a lot. And it hurts. I do not recommend nail clippers as a viable option for skin tab removal.

3. Arthur-itis. You WILL one day be able to predict the weather by the pain in your knuckles. “Pass me some Advil, there’s rain a-comin’!” And oh, how I await the day my hands become gnarled little lumps of geriatric carnage!

2. Body shape. Remember the lithe, curvaceous, sexy little momma you’ve been thus far in your adult life? Well, kiss her goodbye, chicas! You are about to enter the realm of the pear asses. While there once was a time you had boobs, a waist and hips, you will now be unburdened of the tedium of a waistline. From here on out, it’s just boobs and hips. Pack on a few pounds and it will be hard to distinguish between the two. You will know the moment has arrived the first time a man gropes your belly in the dark, looking for a nipple.

1. Facial Hair. This is the most upsetting part of the aging process. No one ever mentioned it. I had to discover it all on my own. No matter how fair haired and flawlessly complected you may be now - or may have been in the past - you will start sprouting randomly generated facial hair. It will start with one weird little stub on your chin. It will work its way up your face - above your lip, between your eyebrows and begin shooting out of moles and “beauty marks”. It is sad, but true. Stock up on wax, bleach and tweezers now. You’re going to need them.

Shave your beard, don your sweater and bring your gnarled hands to Humor-Blogs.com.