6 Red Flags that You might be OLD

It sneaks up on you.

One second you are walking down the aisle, at your all-time-lowest weight    filled with joy and hope and happiness.  In what seems like, at best, a year or two, you are saddled with children, leaky boobs and an addiction to wine.

Before you know it your 20’s and 30’s are passing you by at warp speeds.

I went to New York City on Saturday night with two of my childhood friends to celebrate our birthdays.  We have all lived in NY at one point or another, and now find ourselves in various suburbs,remembering better times when we went out in the city in designer clothes and heels and strange men bought our drinks, living the dream.

Although we were excited to go out for dinner and drinks at a trendy spot on the lower east side, it was quickly apparent to me that our age was betraying us.

When we arrived at the hotel at 6 PM after a day of work and caring for our children,my friend unloaded a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine from her bag.

“Let’s have a drink!” she said excitedly filling glasses with ice.

As my empty stomach rumbled, I remembered that I had only consumed one Luna Bar all day and was starving.  Our dinner reservation was at 9 PM. This is a dinner hour that hasn’t been a reality in quite some time so I announced that I needed food, otherwise I would end up vomiting all night.


We ended up ordering chicken fingers and fries from room service and ate them while we sipped our wine.  We hadn’t even gone out yet, and had been alone without our kids for all of an hour and we were ordering what was essentially a happy meal, to be delivered at our door.

This was the first of many low points that signified how our lives had changed.

In my twenties, I would carefully plan all day before a night out of drinking.  Anything too heavy (fries, pizza, a sandwich) would take up too much room in my stomach and potentially “soak up” too much liquor.  This might mean I would not get drunk quick enough and my whole night would be ruined!

Now sadly I am eating fattening foods as part of my “pre-game” just in attempt to stay alive and avoid alcohol poisoning.


We started to get ready and we had to try on a variety of outfits, asking each other for approval to decide which was best.  This is something we have done since highschool so that’s nothing new. However, the old questions regarding outfits would be, “Are my boobs looking better in this shirt or this shirt?”  “Is this skirt too short? Can you see my vagina?”

Now the main goal was to look young and hip and thin.

I put on my obligatory Spanx and a push-up padded bra and jeans.

The bra that used to be used to push up and add volume to already smooth inflated breasts, are now used like lifts to make sure that the public doesn’t know that your breast has become a deflated sad sack of despair.

My friend, that used to be our front man (in the getting free drinks department), with a set of double “D’s” that would make Pamela Anderson jealous, showed us her deformed boobs as she shoved them into a bra.

We stared in horror as she revealed that even she, the queen of the boobs, had a body that was destroyed by motherhood.  We looked silently without knowing how to respond.


After gaining and losing weight through the childbearing years, and allowing selfish children to suck milk from our breasts for over a year  almost a year  6 months  enough time to massacre our flesh, we are left with deflated mammory glands that hang loosely from our bodies.

“Touch them!” she demanded as we stared incredulously at her once full bosom.

I poked my finger into the top of her boob that was peeking out from her bra.  My finger sunk into her flesh a full 2 inches.  Where there was once a boob, was now just empty skin filled with air, empty milk ducts, and sadness.


I put on a white shirt and pulled on a cute blazer that looked like Chanel but was in fact a $200 Karl Lagerfeld steal I had found.

“Um -no,” my friend yelled at me.  “You look old! You can’t wear a tweed jacket!”

“It’s cold out and it’s Chanel!” I countered.

“It’s NOT Chanel,” she insisted.

“Ok it’s Karl Lagerfeld!” I whined.

“No, you can’t wear it,” she remained firm as I shrugged it off and threw it on the bed, “Fine,” I gave in.

Then it was time to work on our old tired faces.


In our twenties we patted on some powder and some eyeshadow and lipgloss and looked like supermodels.  Now things just aren’t that easy.

Curling irons and flat irons and sprays and oils are involved in the process of making our “mom hair” look cool.

Our translucent powder has been replaced with heavy coverage foundations, heavy coverage powders, and undereye concealers that can cover a tattoo if need be.

Eyelashes and eyebrows that were once overgrown are now sparse bald pathetic parts of our faces.  Brow pencils were worked furiously and fake eyelashes were glued on to create an illusion of youth and appropriate hair growth.

Finally we were ready to hit the town.

In my twenties, when I was ready to go out, I would take a look in the mirror at my thin, young body and face and say “You are a hot bitch.”


Not so much.

Now when you are ready to go out the door, you look in the mirror and say – “Well …this is the best I am going to get out of this puffy old mug.”

So when you head out, you are not entirely as sure of yourself as you once were.


The 50 year-old concierge might give you a second look, but the 21 year old doorman treats you like you are his mother.

So obviously, since it was our birthdays, and we are very old, we proceeded to take a million pictures and then overanalyze and delete them until we felt somewhat better about ourselves.

We got into a cab and took selfies in the back seat.

As we peered at the pictures I said “I think we look good! We don’t look old!”

Then I took it a step further for vailidation.

“Sir!” I leaned in and tapped the cab driver’s shoulder, “Do we look old to you?”

He waited until he got to a red light and turned around slowly and peered at us for what seemed like an hour.




We did the same thing to our waiter at the restaurant later.  Even though when he said we looked like we were “27” and we knew it was only so we would leave him a good tip, we were so elated for the positive feedback.

Because we are fucking needy.

Because we are old.

Because our undereye area is puffy, because our gray hairs are died regularly, and because our foundation sometimes can’t cover our wrinkles or sun spots.

We need strangers to tell us that we are not old…or we might become suicidal.


We arrived at the restaurant and headed to the bar while we waited for our table.  I grabbed a drink menu from the crowded bar and peered at it in the darkly lit room searching for a drink to order.

All I saw were blurred lines.

Keeping my cool, I handed it my deflated boob friend and said cheerily “What do you want to order?”

She looked at the menu and shoved it back at me angrily, “I can’t see a thing on here!”

“Well we have to order something!” I said with despair while I pulled the paper within an inch of my eyeballs desperate to make out the words.

I finally figured out something that sounded good and we ordered a round of drinks.

The restaurant was a trendy scene that had a full bar crowd and turned into a club as the night went on.

The place was loud with tons of people and dance music vibrated throughout the building.

Needless to say – when we got to our table we spent much of the night saying “What?!” and sometimes just nodding in agreement pretending to know what each other was saying.

Sometimes one of us would tell a scandalous story and the others would make the appropriate facial expressions to show that we appreciated the tale, but in fact we had no idea what she was saying…





After dinner was over it was a mere 12 o’clock.  If it was up to our old eyeballs we would be in bed, but we knew we couldn’t do that.

I texted my young cool cousin to meet us for a drink, to save us from ourselves.  She answered back and agreed to meet us out.


“Why did you call me a lesbian?” I asked when she arrived.

“I didn’t!” she answered with confusion.

“Yes – you said “Are you LES?” I reminded her.

“That means LOWER EAST SIDE!” she said doubled over with laughter at my old feeble mom brain.

“Oh right! I knew that,” I covered.

She suggested we go elsewhere for a drink, as she even at the ripe old age of 30 knew that this loud club was no place for old-timers.

We happily agreed and headed out to another bar where we nursed drinks until 2:30 AM.

Before heading back to our hotel we decided we needed to do something that no responsible middle-aged woman could do.  With my fat stomach and my regular attempts at cutting carbs and cheese, it seemed downright scandalous.

But it was something that was so youthful and so dangerous.

It was something only a 20 year old with no cares in the world could do.

If you have ever been drunk in New York City at 2:30 AM then you know that there is just nothing better….



We arrived at our hotel and laid down our heads at 3 AM.  We were extremely impressed with ourselves, that we had kept our eyes and bodies moving until this late hour.

My boobs might tell you something different, but last night, I felt young.

And in the end, how we feel is all that matters.






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4 thoughts on “6 Red Flags that You might be OLD

  1. Girl you hit the nail on the head. I feel 21 inside and people call me ma’am.
    Also, the boob lines made me laugh out loud.

  2. I’m so impressed. I would never be able to stay awake until 3 am. Good for you! How many days did it take for you to get back to normal again? Lol! It would take me at least a week.

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