I ate a Little Debbie snack cake. I ate two, actually. I haven't eaten one in probably twenty years. I know why: they're disgusting, and they taste like plastic. I am watching a movie, on television, that isn't Lifetime, and hasn't been in theaters. This means it was never good enough for either.
I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of Essie nail polish; it's called "Lady Like," as if I'm really going to accomplish something.
I bought a Zumba Ultimate Transformation kit. I eyeball it warily. I've yet to unwrap the DVDs. I just figure that if I'm going to wear the leggings (which were last week's brilliant idea), I'm going to have to do something about these thighs.
I keep looking online at spas and getaway trips to resort lodges with glossy pine beams on the ceiling and pictures of women resembling Stepford Wives enjoying glasses of wine.
I am back and forth on whether or not I want bangs again.
I am determined that I have to get rid of my minivan. It only makes me feel older.
Older. The same feeling I get when I look in the mirror each morning and see bags and gray hairs. I remind myself that I'm still young and hip. I have a Kindle.
I feel a little crazy, but I wouldn't call it a mid-life-crisis because I don't know how old I'll live to be. How does anyone know when their mid-life is? I never understood that.
Nope.
I'm turning 30.
In 5 days.
Please pass the Xanax.
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