Like a tree, you can count my vaginal rings and tell how old I am.

On April 23, 2013 I turned 37 years old. Apparently I have a meltdown every couple of years over my age since the last documented breakdown was when I turned 35. I think the 37-year meltdown was triggered by an app that told me how old I was going to be and it struck me the wrong way that day.

    • I realized I was inching ever closer to 40 and would soon be faced with the choice of whether I would start lying about my age in the next couple of years or not. I haven’t yet, and I probably won’t, but the simple fact that I was forced to make a conscious decision about this was traumatic enough to force me to lay down a few Gina tracks about turning and being 37.
    • I think I’ve got enough pet hair on my sweater to be officially middle-aged and single now.
    • I’m more than half-way between 36 and 37. No big deal. The only difference is at 37 I’ll be so old and half-dead. I miss me already.
    • I’ve asked my 15-year-old to start wiping my ass now so he’s ready for my future.
    • My birthday is coming in April. I’m thinking of a ninja theme with black footie jammies for all. Where all my ninjas at?
    • Anyone who says they didn’t know their astrological sign before the switch is lying. I still remember quite fondly those days when I could blame my personality on being a Taurus. Now, what the hell do I get to blame me on?
    • For my birthday I’d like to finally plan some tattoos this year since I’ve spent the past twenty years thinking about the first one I will get. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of cash, so going to prison it is. I’m sure they’ll do some fine work there.
    • I’ve finally gotten old enough that I bite people who call me “ma’am”. I have grown retractable fangs for it now; I’m assuming the growth is from the wonky hormones. Listen, if I’m so old that you call me “ma’am”, then you’re young enough for me to drain all the blood from your body and use it to live longer.
    • At 37 years old, I’m what kids call “Vintage” but still, 80-year-olds are trendier than I am.
    • I never understood my dad’s obsession with back scratchers until I hit 37. But now I get it, dad.Never mind the simple fact that we can still get an itch somewhere we can’t reach means we’ve failed evolutionary necessities.
    • I’m old enough to say crap like “16 years ago I…”.
    • 13yo: Mom’s trying to be hip again. Hey Mom, don’t throw out your pelvis this time. Remember last time it only took a swing of your arm?
      Me: No fair, it was a bowling-while-pregnant accident.
      13yo: But really, I’m glad you’re not one of those moms that tries to be all hip and funky.
      Me: Uh…thanks??
    • Another sign I’m getting old: I have to bring a jacket to restaurants during the summer.
    • Is it possible for your chin to go crooked with age? I might be overthinking this one, but I’m pretty sure one boney side is lower than the other.
    • Depressing: When looking in the mirror, you’re actually looking at a younger version of yourself.
    • I don’t understand the fresh vagina thing someone was talking about. I mean, I’m proud of my flora and fauna, but let’s be real, nothing’s FRESH at 37 years old.And never mind me, I’m just projecting my insecurities over my own eventually crumbling and dusty vaj.
    • My ex: You’re old.
      Me: What?
      Him: You’re old now, you have a graduate.
      Me: Fuck you.
      Him: No. You’re old.
    • My eggs are 37 years old. They’re yummy in clam sauce.
    • I have this one long hair on my boob. I wish I had 3 so I could braid them. Other than maybe a nose hair, there is little more excruciating than plucking a hair off your boob.No one tells you by 40 you’ll be shaving random, long hairs off your boobs. It’s a dirty secret.
    • Birthdays are so lame. I told my kid if he wants a birthday gift, he’s going to need to do something original first. He’s had 11 years of birthdays already.
    • I told someone that I’m 52 and they believed me ‘cause black don’t crack.
    • Well, I’m still old and getting older. I should embrace it. Like I think I know what I want for my next birthday: a fireman.

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My liver still thanks you. 

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