Insomnia's Calling

When the vulgar insomnia gods woke me at 3am this morning, I spent nearly two hours too utterly tired and lazy to rise from my comfortable sinkhole of a bed. Not that I didn't consider getting up. It was tempting. Especially when the green light of my alarm clock read 4:30. But there were just too many cons. I mean, either I'd actually have to put on some clothes or just hope that the good people eating late at the nearby McDonald's wouldn't be able to make out my face as I traversed my living room naked. And if I did get up, surely I'd want breakfast. But eating breakfast would mean committing myself to the day. Because who ever would eat breakfast and then go back to bed on a Tuesday--only to wake up and have a second breakfast a few hours later? Double breakfasts on a Tuesday are against the law, resulting in prison time at the 24 Hour Fitness.

So as I lay in my sleepless bed, my mind wandered onto a few different things, beginning with the wild rumpus and the upcoming movie trailer Where the Wild Things Are. Would Maurice Sendak be content with the onscreen version? Will I? And why don't I own the infectious Arcade Fire song that plays during the trailer?

Completely unrelated, when will I ever be established enough in my career to own a Coach bag? And also unrelated, what are the odds of a plane destined for Lindbergh Field Airport crashing through my downtown San Diego apartment?

Well, it's always a party here in Insomniaville. Lucky for me, today was Cesar Chavez Day--a California state holiday, a reason to celebrate, and an excuse to sleep in.

Losing Sleep

The night before a big event--such as Christmas (when I was little), or various graduations, or my very own wedding--I have lain in bed with one thought spilling from my mind onto my pillow: "You'll be lying here again so fast--tomorrow is already a memory."

There are many people around the world who live contentedly in the present, but I for sure am not one of them. Given a chance, I will grow nostalgic for something that hasn't even happened yet.

And as I lay in my bed last night, those nostalgic memories began leaping forward, faster, headily, through years. Will it all slip by in a blink?

Dyeing

I've always had white hair since I was a little kid. My brother, too. We believed it was some kind of strange follicle birthmark. But now the proliferation of grays on my considerably older and wiser noggin can only be chocked up to... well, being older and wiser.

I figure I'm about 6-12 months away from having to make a crucial decision plaguing thirty-something women everywhere: To dye or not to dye. I mean, once you start, you can't stop. Sort of like heroin. But not really. Okay--not at all.

So what to do? I've been debating for a while now. In the meantime, I fight the urge to pluck the grays while mourning the loss of my lovely dark hair.

Messages in a Bottle

Like a truffle-snuffling piggy, I went sniffing through the interweb in search of luxury anti-aging skincare products. Here are a few of the delicacies along with their promises:

• Estée Lauder's Re-Nutriv line: Imagine if the look of youth could be prolonged indefinitely.
• Lancôme's Génifique Youth Activating Concentrate: Youth is in your genes. Reactivate it. Discover the skin you were born to have.
• Clinique's Youth Surge SPF 15, an age decelerating moisturizer: Unless you’re in some hurry to see 40.

While I covet, I also cringe. What's up with this culture of youthful beauty? It makes the whole inevitable getting older thing such a psychological chore. And yet still... We wants it, my precious.

Haikus from a Pilates Novice

After Pilates
Sharp pencil points stab
the centers of my butt cheeks
long after class ends.

After Pilates II
Irony is my
ass feeling older striving
for the opposite.

Sorority Sister

A few weeks ago when I was on the SDSU campus, two college girls asked me if I was interested in joining their sorority. "It's rush week," they chirped. They were cute and curvy with well-placed highlights.

"No, sorry," I said without explaining. I think I might have even waved bubye. As in shoo. Quickly. Before you realize upon closer inspection of my face that my ten year college reunion is coming up.

But secretly, I couldn't help feeling pleased. Even giddy. I began having visions of redoing my college experience--like Old School with a lot less balls and hair. I wouldn't have to study; I could just drink, make new friends, shop at Forever 21, practice the art of prettiness. I could wear heart and star printed pjs and sip white zin while watching Gossip Girl. Hmmm....

Nah. I prefer drinking some mediocre red while watching Bravo! in my sweats. Some of you might ask, "Is there really any difference?" But tut tut, sweet darlings. The difference is night and day.

Eggs and Cream

I'm 31 and a half, and no one wants my eggs. Not that I'd ever sell, but you know--options are just another form of freedom. And according to those donor ads on Craigslist, et al., my fruit's too ripe.

I'll admit, I'm one of those Americans preoccupied with quantitative figures: percentiles, stats, heartbeats per minute. I'm personally offended by the birthyears of Disney stars and age-based magazine superlative articles like "The Most Successful People Under 30." I mean, the rest of us aren't dead yet last I checked.

Anyway, the point is this: All of us are getting older, whether gracefully or otherwise. So instead of me just slathering on a $45 face cream and counting my gray hairs, I'm gonna explore what it means to get farther from ground zero. Ya dig?