no one should take themselves so seriously

by mg at 12:37 PM on March 23, 2002

What’s next, crows feet?

During a cursory glance at myself in the mirror this morning (cursory? I spent nearly 45 minutes gazing lovingly upon my own reflection), I found not one, not two, not even half a dozen, but seven gray hairs. I’m sure if I had looked a little harder, I could have found even more.

Now, I have spotted a gray strand or two before. That is nothing new. I started noticing them years ago, when I was still a teenager. Usually, it’s just the one silver-gray rebel, and after I pluck it, my head goes back to its brown uniformity (with reddish gold highlights after I’ve spent a little too much time in the sun).

One or two strands, I can stand. But finding seven in one day is almost too much to bear. I think it might have something to do with the fact I haven’t dyed my hair in almost a year. In the past five years, I haven’t gone much longer than a few months without dying my hair. I’ve probably had gray hair all this time, but never noticed it until now.

It’s almost enough to make me want to renege on my pledge to go natural. And my pledge to save money (hair dye is expensive). And that pledge to not do things that might cause me cancer (besides smoking, because that’s too cool to ever give up. And also my pledge not to do things that leave stains all over my bathroom (which means it’s a good thing my apartment building has a basement, or else I’d have to give up my prostitute dismemberment hobby too).

At any rate, this is a sure sign that I’m getting old. Also that Snaggle was in New York this week, but I didn’t get a chance to see him because he only ever wanted to get together past my bedtime (hey, maybe that means more than I think it did?). Really, I’ve never been much into partying to begin with, but as I’m approaching middle age, the thought of starting the night at 11:30 just makes me tired. So very very tired.

Gray hair, needing to get at least 13 hours of sleep, hemorrhoids, and the urge to shake my fist and yell “You kids!” whenever a teenager speeds by me on their skateboard are all sure signs of aging. Sure, I’m only 26 (well, in a couple weeks anyway), but I feel very old.

What is really weird is that I also feel very young. It’s Saturday, and I woke up to watch cartoons this morning. The other day, I happened to walk past my old Junior High at around 3 o’clock. The kids were just getting out of class, were running around and doing all those things that I did as a 12 year-old; talking about comic books and video games, playing handball in the park, and teasing girls.

I wanted nothing more than to join in with them.

And it didn’t seem that long ago when I was them, but it’s been almost 15 years since I was in their tiny little shoes. I was looking at these kids and they all looked so small. I shouldn’t still be doing the same things I was doing when I was their age, should I? I even thought better of offering the girls in my “candy” the other day. “Maybe I should be looking for girls born in the same century as me,” I thought. And maybe I thought right.

Either too old, or too young; maybe I should act my age. But, what’s my age again?