No one told me 33 is the new 63

I'm about a week into my 33rd year, and I'm kind of not liking it.
Overnight it has become noticeably harder to get out of bed in the morning, I shit you not.

Has 33 taken me beyond the twilight of my 20s? I’m not sure, but something has changed.

I know women in their 30s are more self-assured, grounded, and have a better handle on life, blah, blah, blah. But I'm thinking I'd trade a little of that togetherness to not feel like death warmed over for the first 15 minutes or so of my morning.

Back in the day when fashion magazines ran pieces on how to look good in your 20s, 30s, 40s, etc., I used to have the luxury of smugly skipping over the old hags and reading the 20s tips. They pretty much amounted to telling you to do whatever the hell you wanted cuz your body, skin, and hair was sooo freaking youthful and glorious. You could withstand rock star booze binges and cold pizza for breakfast, still function and look presentable.

Now this old hag is considering adding soy in her diet. Revitalift is on my Walgreen’s list for tomorrow and I’ve officially included “tweeze chin hair” to my regular beauty regimen.

At least the biological clock panic hasn’t set in yet. I think that stems from my complete disregard for time (I can go years without wearing a watch. Really, I can.) Besides when 40 hits and if I’m totally desperate for a kid, I can always adopt one of those tragic third world orphans.

That's if Angelina Jolie has left some for the rest of us.

email me at angieblog@yahoo.com