5 Things No One Ever Told You About Turning 40

turning40-1
For years now, I've been hearing about how much my body will change after I turn 40. "Just wait till YOU turn 40...", they'd warn.  And by "they", I mean people at work, aunts, my mom, other people's moms, people on the street, and weird Depends commercials. What they all failed to mention, though, is that shit changes overnight. Literally.  One day you're 39, the next day you're 40 and you don't even recognize yourself anymore.

So, here's all the shit they DON'T tell you about the day after you turn 40:

1: Your bladder will shrink 3 sizes. 
Since the time you were five years old, you've been able to sleep through the night without the need to schlep out of bed to pee (or without wetting the bed). But once you turn 40, not only can you no longer sleep through the night, you have to get up to go pee at least twice a night. And, we're not just talking about the havoc child birth has placed on your ability to "hold your pee in", we're talking about the fact that you can drink 8 oz of water and the next thing you know, Niagara Falls is pouring out of your urethra. Did your body even remember to save some of that shit for sustainable bodily nutrients?  We may never know.

Also, be careful when you're having a sneezing fit... you will have to change your pants if you don't remember to squeeze your legs shut.

Kegel exercises, don't fail us now!

2: You'll go blind.
Not only will your sight change overnight, you'll suddenly be unable to drive at night without cursing oncoming traffic for blinding you.  Which in turn, will cause you to hit curbs more frequently and accidentally, maybe run over squirrels. Maybe. Or, maybe the squirrel was already dead.  Either way, you won't know because you're fucking blind. Also, the squirrel could have actually been a possum. No matter, though, because, again... BLIND.

Also, your computer screen will think you're perpetually drunk and display a blurry screen just to fuck with you.  And, if you were able to read a book without your glasses/contacts when you were 39, at 40, you'll need reading glasses...or in some cases tri-focals...which many don't even know exist.  Did you have Lasik surgery last year? Well, you're going to have to have it again because 40 took your perfect $2,000 vision and pissed all over it.

3. You will need electro-shock therapy for your new psychotic tendencies.
Xanax might help. Or, large amounts a booze sprinkled with fairy dust. But, let me just say that, drastic body/lifestyle changes don't bode well for people with mental issues.  If you were a psycho bitch at 39, lord help us all when you turn 40. Your hormones get all out of whack. People asking stupid questions like, "what's for dinner" will make you burst into tears one day, and make you want to stab a mofo in the throat with a screwdriver the next day.  And, don't let anyone try to steal a french fry off your plate! Blood will be shed! Children will scream bloody murder... Husbands will lock themselves up in bathrooms with video games and dogs will have nervous bouts of explosive diarrhea all over the goddamn carpet if someone tries to steal a fry, yo! Fries are sacred. Like Almond Joys.

I think I digressed.

4. Hair will start popping up in weird places.
We used to make fun of my grandma who spent a few minutes EACH DAY plucking what appeared to be BEARD hairs from her chin.  After she passed away, we used to sit in girly circles sometimes laughing at how she made us help her pluck 'em when she was on her DEATH BED.  Hahaha. But, guess what? That shit ain't funny anymore, y'all. You will need one of those 12X magnifying mirrors and you'll cry when you realize what your face looks like up close, but you'll have to push through it and get to plucking. EVERY. DAY. Until you DIE. For real.

5. Food will do weird things to your body.
And, I'm not just talking about gaining weight.  I'm talking about acid reflux, gas and heartburn.  All of which will send you into a frantic frenzy because you'll think you're dying of some rare form of stomach cancer.  Your entire life up until the eve of your 40th birthday has been spent eating whatever the hell you want WHENEVER the hell you wanted to eat it.  But, suddenly, you'll realize that you aren't able to eat at least 3 hours before going to bed because you will vomit into your mouth just as you're drifting off into deep REM sleep. And, if for some reason you forget that you might die in your sleep if you nibble on something just before bed time, you'll have to prop 874 bazillion pillows up behind you and sleep SITTING UP for fear that you'll choke on your own vomit and DIE. Like the crack whores do. No one wants to die like a crack whore, y'all. But YOU will if you eat after 7 pm.

So, if you're still 39 and facing your 40th birthday soon... you're welcome!  You are now mentally prepared to understand the shit that's fixenta go down.  No, you do not have hairy sasquatch blood... No, you didn't swallow a flesh-eating bug from some third world country... No, you weren't probed by aliens in your sleep. You're just 40.

It ain't the end of the world, but it sure will feel like it some days.

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Addressing Envelopes - It's Like Rocket Science, Only Harder

The fact that "a" should be "an" is not
lost on me. But I liked the message
here, so I went with it. Don't hate.
I just realized that the oldest spawn does NOT know how to address an envelope. That's right. I was in the middle of sitting down to start addressing envelopes for her graduation announcements and I'm all like, fuck this shit - when I graduated high school, my mom made me address the envelopes and lick to seal each and every one.

Lick to seal. Heh. That's what he said!

Anyway... so, I printed out a mailing list and gave a stack of envelopes to the spawn...

Me: Here. You get to have the honor of addressing these envelopes.

Spawn: Addressing? What do you mean?

Me: Uhm. What I mean, is that you need to WRITE ADDRESSES on these mofos so we can put them in the mail.

Spawn: Can't we just print them?

Me: No. I looked up proper graduation announcement etiquette on google... and all those goody-too-shoo beyotches say you have to hand write them.  So, get on it.  You want gifts?  Then you gotta do it right...Because I don't give a shit.

Spawn: Ok. Fine.

* 2 minutes later *

Spawn: Moooooom!

Me: There's no way you're done already.

Spawn: Where does the address go?

Me: You're kidding, right?

Spawn: Uhm. No.  It goes right here, right? <pointing to top left corner where the fucking RETURN address goes>

Me: No. That's where YOUR address goes.

Spawn: I have to put MY address on these? I thought I was going by your list??

Me: Am I on candid camera again? <looking around the room very sure that Hubber hid a camera somewhere>

Spawn: Moooom... I'm serious.

Me: WTF do they teach you in school?!  How do you have all A's?!  You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with our education system!

Spawn: We don't MAIL letters at school, Mom. We E-MAIL. And, text. Duh.

Me: Shoot me, now.

Then, I proceeded to tell her the City, State and zip go on the third line after she ruined the first envelope. AND there's a comma after the CITY!  For safe measure, I went ahead and printed return address labels. It was either that or punch Hubber in the throat.

Hubber: Why do you want to punch ME in the throat? I'm not in charge of etiquette up in here. As a matter of fact, I am probably the LEAST qualified etiquette expert in this family.

Me: My point exactly! I can't do everything!  Your children should know how to address envelopes!  What about all those thank-you cards I've made her write throughout the years?

Hubber: Well, in her defense, YOU always address all the envelopes.

Me: So, it's MY fault your kids are dumb?!

Hubber: Uhm. I'll be right back... gotta pee <he says as he's shutting and LOCKING the bathroom door>

Then, the sounds of machine guns can be heard through the door.

Me: You're not peeing! You're playing games in there!

Anyway... so, if you're one of the lucky people on our mailing list and your address looks all jacked up on the envelope, THIS is why.

And, on a totally related note - feel free to send money for my booze fund.  It's dwindling.