I found my first gray hair today.
Then I found a couple more.
Save for the immediate, almost-guttural scream at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, as well as the subsequent existential crisis that’s still looming over my head, I think I’m going to survive.
According to a slew of different blogs and articles all over the internet, finding one gray hair here and there isn’t that big of a deal. Some of the more brazen (re: lying) bunch of blogs even claim the first silver strand sighting doesn’t mean anything at all, and is absolutely nothing to get all fussy and worked up about.
But I digress.
The other day, I looked in the mirror expecting to see a pimple. Instead, I could only focus on my newly formed, albeit minor laugh lines. The day afterwards when I looked at a happy photo of me and my husband, I noticed I’m developing (gasp) crow’s feet.
These events within the last week are, of course, enough make me incredibly anxious and all-consumed by my impending old age and, well, death.
And if that wasn’t enough, in addition to these physical signs of aging, my husband and I bought our first car this week. Afterwards when we drove our shiny, new (to us) car off the lot, he turned to me, half-smiled, half-sighed and said, “I think this car loan officially makes us adults.”
This morning, before I got in the new car and drove to my 40-hour-per-week desk job with benefits and a 401k – in what I can now only assume was a silent and subconscious protest against my fine wrinkles and little gray hairs – I scarfed down a bowl of Cookie Crisp and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast.
That oughta show ’em.
At least my newly gray hairs match my two nose rings – silver linings and all that.