By Lori Welch Brown

People. This is important stuff. I am turning the big 6-0 this month. How did this happen? I’ve always been ‘the kid.’ The baby girl of my family. The kid of my friend group. The young’un at work. The bay-bee. And now, I’m officially on the downhill slope to geriatric. Clearly, it’s been a minute since I was a baby anything—well except for last Tuesday when I was super tired and had a melt down in the produce aisle at Trader Joe’s.

Sure—I’ve been adulting for a while now, but does it really count? I mean seriously. I still can’t keep a plant alive. I haven’t even learned how to properly store herbs. Don’t even get me started on vacuum sealing or preserving—two things that totally feel like an adult of 60 years should know how to do. I barely even bake beyond brownies in a box that require nothing more than an egg and some stirring. I don’t even have to ‘fold it in’ and yet I still manage to have powdery lumps.

XXL and I just got a new puppy, and I was shocked and surprised when they just let us walk out with him. Did we look like responsible adults? Did we look like we knew how to train and feed and keep something alive? Just last week I locked my keys in my Jeep and had to climb in through the back window and do a somersault over the backseat to reach them. Let’s just say that while I was able to accomplish it, I’m no Simone Biles.

Honestly, I still have to resist the urge to dial up my parents and ask them to loan me $100 on the regular. And as embarrassingly delightful it was when my mom used to palm me a secret Benjamin, I totally wish someone would just randomly hand me some cash just because. Earning money is so highly overrated. I miss opening birthday cards and having cash fall out. Now it’s all Starbucks and Amazon gift cards. While useful and appreciated, what I really want is for someone to take me out and buy me a new fall wardrobe. We can call it back-to-school shopping or whatever makes you happy, but I swear I will be grateful and not act like a whiny brat like I used to when Mom dragged me through the husky department at Sears.

I don’t want to grow up. Funny—Mom used to always say, “Stop wishing your life away,” when I’d moan and groan over not being able to do ‘adult’ things like shaving my legs or wearing a bra. Both incredibly overrated. First off—a decent razor that doesn’t slice your leg up isn’t cheap. And, my hair used to be soft peach fuzz vs. the twigs that now sprout out overnight. Another thing Mom warned me about—once you start, you’ll never be able to stop. And don’t ever shave above the knees. You’ll regret it. Yup. Sure do, Mom. And bras? A decent one is the cost of an electric bill and in this humidity, you need three a day. God, men have it so easy.

What else? Oh—I couldn’t’ wait to drive and now I want to be driven everywhere. In an air-conditioned Suburban preferably. Begged to be able to go to concerts. Now you could offer me free tickets, and I’d politely decline. Too many people. Too loud. Too expensive. Too much traffic. Clubs? Ditto. Sure—I’ll meet you at the bar for a drink. As long as there’s easy parking, no lines, decent food, and I can be home by 8:00 pm. Who am I kidding. Seven is my sweet spot.

Basically, I want to be 12 again, sitting around doing puzzles, reading trashy novels, and eating all the junk food without gaining an ounce. Zero workouts. I’d even do a little homework if it meant someone else supporting my notebook, sticker, and pen addiction.

I know. I’m supposed to be grateful I made it this far. Beats the alternative, as they say. But do ‘they’ agree that this aging thing is hard work. I mean the paperwork alone is enough to send you to an early grave. Not to mention all the apps to download, the passwords to save. I almost envy my grandmother. All she had to do was lug buckets of water across the road, muck a stall, feed some chickens, raise eight kids, and use an outhouse. She didn’t have to worry about anyone video’ing her and publicly shaming her when her chickens got eaten by a fox. Pretty sure the barn door didn’t require a passkey (whatever that is) or secondary authentication. Those were the days.

I’m trying to stay upbeat. I’m sure I have things to look forward to…but what? Elon Musk as emperor? Lauren Sánchez Bezos as first lady? Driverless ambulances carting me off to my assisted living facility on the moon? Funding said living arrangements with feet pics because social security funds were used for a gold brick road to the Purple House (formerly known as the White House—Lauren’s fave color). Sigh.

Maybe I can drive 60. It’s the fast-moving future that is frightening. My parents must have felt the same way when the microwave and VCR arrived. I guess that’s why the past can feel so sweet, simple, and stabilizing.

When youth leaves you with memories, at least I have Leif Garrett and an icy cold Orange Julius to be grateful for. Oh—and a really tricked out Barbie townhouse, some cool OP shorts, and all that great ‘80s music that I’ll singing and dancing to on the moon.

About the Author: Lori is a local writer, painter and pet lover who loves to share her experiences and expertise with our readers. She has been penning a column for the OTC for over 25 years. Please follow Lori online on Medium for more missives like this.