Zombified Version of My Old Self

So this is what it’s like? I mean, I knew I was getting old. I’ll be 40 in a few years. And I have gray hair that I don’t have time to keep covered. But I’ve always just joked about it and blamed my kids.

Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.

But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.

I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.

The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)

Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?

Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.