Still Stupid After All These Years

Oh My God.

It never stops.

Do you know that I just turned 50 and I am still doing stupid stuff? What's that about?

Somehow I thought that surviving to this milestone age would bring wisdom, knowledge, clarity and additional self-worth. What was I thinking? I turned 50 only one second after just having been 49 for 364 days - and there was no magic spell that made me wise like, say, Yoda or Buddah overnight. (It did get me a stupid offer to join AARP with a free "new member" gift bag, but that's just one more thing I can't discuss because it makes me "older" but not wiser and certainly not anywhere near retirement. That's another post entirely.)

So, am I any better, magically, at 50 than I was at 49? Nope. Not even better, actually, than I was at 16, mentally. As a matter of fact, I just took a test on Facebook "What is your mental age?" I got 34. This does not surprise me because, well, I'm just too…predictable. I wouldn't know fun if it bit me in the ass.

I still want to be like Samantha on Bewitched and wiggle my nose and make things magically happen. I'd like the comfort of having the figure of Barbara Eden in "I Dream of Jeannie" and live in her bottle that's pretty damn small but fashionable. (I didn't see a diswasher there, so I'm great with that living arrangement.)

I still walk too fast in bare feet and smash my toes.
I still find myself blushing and talking nervously around men I don't know and am attracted to.
I still must verbally vomit every ridiculous thought in my head on to my blog because, well, the cats won't listen and quite frankly, they don't care. No one does. I live in a house with kids under 12 who only care about Sponge Bob, and I work in a job in basically pure silence, so, if I'm not talking in my sleep, it's got to come out somewhere, apparently.
I still can't make a decision to save my life.
I can't wear high heels. Ever. I'm a klutz, same as I ever was.
I now have back fat and my knees look swollen, but that's just where my boobs drooped to.
I can't do second grade math. (I couldn't do it in second grade, either).
I can't read Ikea instructions.
I can't change the lightbulb in my dryer; it's beyond me.
I still hate going to the mailbox and emptying the dishwasher.
I still believe a boy when he tells me he likes me, but he really just wants to have sex first and ask questions later, LOL.
I still share way too much info about myself and leave NOTHING to the imagination.
I can't fix anything that's broken, nor do I care to.
I have no new outside interests because, well, I don't go outside.

So, basically, NOTHING has changed.

Is there hope for me?
I doubt it. But imagine this…if I actually had a life, I'd have nothing ridiculous to write about and you'd be missing out on all the stupid stuff I do and all my idiosyncracies that make you feel better about being you. At least I'm contributing something to the world, right?

Wait! I just thought of something I can do to change my life right now!
Uh…
Hold on…
Dammit! Hot flash. Now I can't remember what I was going to say.
Nevermind. Maybe if I walk in to the other room and come back in it'll come back to me?
Nope. Not happening.

Know this: I'll be back here, blabbing because, well, it's what I do.
I'll bet you just can't wait.

Maybe 51 is better?

Cheerth