It all started back in the fall when I had to have my license renewed. I was a little bummed about that because my license actually had a good picture on it and you know that photographer at the DMV has kept his job all the years since, just waiting for his chance to correct the error. It was pointless, but I still turned up that day with my hair washed, ready to thwart the laws of the universe once again.
No dice. Let’s just say the DMV took their title back, and in a flash I went from 90210 to Desperate Housewives. (And that’s even the ‘you wish’ scenario. It was actually a bit more like Reality Bites to Thirtysomething.)
Then, a month ago, I went in for my decennial physical, and they said I was an inch shorter. To be clear, the height they gave me was an inch shorter than any other time I’ve been measured as an adult. Are you feeling the downward rolling sensation here?
Now we arrive at this afternoon, when I was attempting to be a good citizen and donate blood. I actually don’t mind donating blood – needles don’t bug me and I like Lorna Doones, so it’s all good. Except for today when they told me, for the first time ever, that my veins were kind of hard to find. Then once I was all hooked up, it wasn’t going fast enough and the blood speedometer kept beeping. The ladies told me that my vein was deflated. Seriously. They said it with this slightly sorry tone like I was about to dry up.
Lots of great things go downhill – roller coasters, snowboards, the part of the bike ride where you can breathe again. But Thirtysomething is threatening to turn into the Golden Girls out here, people, and all this wind in my face is starting to make my eyes water. I’d better tuck a tissue into the sleeve of my cardigan.
(If you don’t have great aunts, you might not get that last joke.)